As per usual, I have fallen behind in my blogging. Or rather at least in my highlights of “Where in the world is Madison”. The truth is that I really wasn’t up to much, and a big part of that was that I really felt like I needed to leave the country. Not because Colombia isn’t awesome/amazing/beautiful and more. I just feel like I’d rather be in Peru.
That is what led me to this moment in time. Sitting in an airport waiting for my flight, in approximately 11 hours.
I am pig-headed and I often act on whims. These whims usually lead me to some of my more memorable experiences. Tonight will be no exception. I arrived in Cartagena after a 6 hour bus ride from Palomina, where I was lounging beachside for a couple days. Which was heaven. I even have a bit of a tan on the pasty legs now.
The problem arose when I tried to book a flight and my credit card was denied. Always an ominous sign.
Beyond this, I had other problems. Namely that my debit appeared to “stop” working too.
Great.
To add to the problems, I officially have $5,000 COP (approximately $2.50) to my name. Well, in reality I also have some American cash kicking around somewhere, but whose counting.
So my whim told me to go to the airport at 10:00pm at night to get the final flight from Cartagena to Lima. It was perfect. Fly during the night. End up in Lima at 11:00am the next day. What could go wrong? Me. And the banks.
Thus, Madison is going to spend the night in the Cartagena airport. With wooden seats. Clearly they do not see very many “over nighters” in this airport.
Wish me luck. And as I’m sure my mother would say, sense.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Traveler mistakes, and why you're going to make them
Lately I have been thinking a lot about the mistakes I've made as a traveler. The times I was overcharged for goods and didn't realize it until too late. The time the taxi drivers convinced me that it was the same price to take a taxi than a shuttle (although, this has also been true in cases). The times when you get ripped off exchanging currency. The time you got robbed stumbling drunk home (while this hasn't happened to me, you know it happens).
All I can say to you is this: read the blogs, read your guidebook. But know this. YOU WILL MAKE MISTAKES. But you'll have a blast making them.
I'm not saying don't prepare yourself, but at the same time remember most people aren't out to get you. I have been helped by incredible people. People who gave me rides, advice, and food just because it was in the goodness of their heart.
Something I realized about two or three days ago is that the journey itself is an adventure. Whether you haven't slept for 72 hours, thought all your credit and debit cards wouldn't work, and had $20 US to your name (like it was for me this morning), life can still be grand.
Even with all the mishaps, lost pesos, and misadventures you will still likely have 1000 times more fun and be quicker to laugh, than that time someone cut you off in traffic back home.
So relax. You'll make mistakes, but it'll all be worth it.
All I can say to you is this: read the blogs, read your guidebook. But know this. YOU WILL MAKE MISTAKES. But you'll have a blast making them.
I'm not saying don't prepare yourself, but at the same time remember most people aren't out to get you. I have been helped by incredible people. People who gave me rides, advice, and food just because it was in the goodness of their heart.
Something I realized about two or three days ago is that the journey itself is an adventure. Whether you haven't slept for 72 hours, thought all your credit and debit cards wouldn't work, and had $20 US to your name (like it was for me this morning), life can still be grand.
Even with all the mishaps, lost pesos, and misadventures you will still likely have 1000 times more fun and be quicker to laugh, than that time someone cut you off in traffic back home.
So relax. You'll make mistakes, but it'll all be worth it.
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
The good guys
This website is semi-related to the previous post. I think that it is honorable that some men are trying to show that there is another way to "be a man."
http://goodmenproject.com/
These guys, make me proud.
http://goodmenproject.com/
These guys, make me proud.
Saturday, March 24, 2012
My views on gender (as of March 24, 2012)
Today I want to talk about something that has weighed heavily on my mind in the past six months and hit a proverbial “brick wall” while I was in Bogota. Men treat women differently down here. Both the locals and the foreigners. What I mean is more than just a “macho” culture. It is all pervasive. It is even in Hollywood movies and the popular books we read.
I am talking about a lack of respect for what it means to be a strong women. For someone, especially of the so-called “fair” sex, to be more than just a delicate flower. To be someone who can protect herself, defend herself, provide for herself and to take care of her self: financially, spiritually, and in life in general. When I read books like Twilight, they have no seemingly harmful message at the surface. But underneath lies a deeper message. Women need men to protect themselves.
And a part of me wonders, why is this? Especially when we live in a society where more and more women are turning to education over big families. And while this is certainly not representative of everyone, it is a fairly true trend. Women, especially those educated, are waiting longer and longer to have children. When they do have children, if they do, it is generally not a large family either.
The image of a woman is changing, at least supposedly. But as a bit of a cynic-optimist, a part of me wonders if enough has been done. Rape, sexual assault, prostitution, domestic violence, etc. all of these things are still parts of society, its as true in Canada or the US or Europe as it is in India, Uganda, and Nicaragua.
My question to you all is why? Especially women and decent men. Why do more people refuse to stand up for the women in our lives? What always surprises me down here in Latin America, is that men treat women as objects. They whistle, cat call, shout out “me amor” or “my love” at you. They hiss, they kiss, they grab. They sleep around (in fairness both sexes are guilty of that) and act out their lives like they are in a tele novella. But what I can’t understand is this, how does a father stand by and watch his daughter go through this. How does he not want to kill every man who so much looks at her funny, whistles, hoots, jeers. And the truth is that they do, but they are just as to lame as the rest of society for what happens. He probably has slept with another woman, he definitely covets another mans property every once in a while. But every time, there "she" is. His daughter, mother, aunt, sister.
What I want to know is why we don’t remember that how we treat our women is how we treat our next generation. The women, still traditionally for most of the world, not only bring into the world this next generation, but raise them. They teach them the culture and hopefully, how to live within it successfully.
What I wish is that more people lived knowing that a woman is not just a thing. She is a person. She has feelings, thoughts, desires, dreams, and passions. She does not need your protection unless you make her need it. She shouldn’t need to know how to defend herself from overly touchy drunks. She shouldn’t need to be on her guard if you, men (the disgusting ones), would behave yourself. She should feel safe because you want your whole community to feel safe.
Don’t get me wrong. I know there are women out there who sexually assault men and boys. There are some women capable of doing the same things too. When 1 in 4 women will be sexually assaulted, and 1 in 6 men, what exactly is it that we are trying to say to society. That this is ok? That we somehow have a right in positions of power to put seemingly vulnerable women and men into some sort of pigeon hole where we can do what we want with them?
I know, for the vast majority of you reading this, you will not be a part of my rant. You will likely (I hope) agree that things like sexual violence is absolutely ridiculous, horrifying, and terrible.
What I want is for society to wake up. To stop churning out movies like The Hangover that glorify men getting drunk and shirking responsibility. I want movies like He’s Just Not That Into You, to stop portraying women as crazy, love-lorn losers. What happened to such a novel thing as a role model? Someone who could help guide you through the slurry and confusion?
Moment of truth. I was once sexually assaulted. It was not by someone I knew, but a mototaxi driver when I was in Bangkok, Thailand. It was nothing more than a grope. But the truth is, that I don’t see myself as a victim. Instead I see all of ourselves as the victims. Where men, and some women, think that they are invincible. That they can grope a foreigner without repercussions. That you can molest a child because “you groomed them”. It is not ok.
I don’t have a solution. I don’t have any words to encourage you.I just had to say my peace. And my peace is that the next time someone tells a joke about rape, it’s not a joke. The next time someone talks about a sexual assault like it’s funny, it’s not. The next time you hear a court ruling that says a woman “asked’ to be attacked because she was wearing “suggestive” clothing, it does not mean she deserved what she got.
I ask of you to look for instances in your own life where you can diminish this gender inequality. It is time for men the world over to recognize the value of a woman. And women, it’s time for us to realize that we can be strong. We can demand more from our men. Have some self-respect. And if someone disrespects you, tries to use his power over you, to stand up and do something about it. Tell your story, to someone.
I am talking about a lack of respect for what it means to be a strong women. For someone, especially of the so-called “fair” sex, to be more than just a delicate flower. To be someone who can protect herself, defend herself, provide for herself and to take care of her self: financially, spiritually, and in life in general. When I read books like Twilight, they have no seemingly harmful message at the surface. But underneath lies a deeper message. Women need men to protect themselves.
And a part of me wonders, why is this? Especially when we live in a society where more and more women are turning to education over big families. And while this is certainly not representative of everyone, it is a fairly true trend. Women, especially those educated, are waiting longer and longer to have children. When they do have children, if they do, it is generally not a large family either.
The image of a woman is changing, at least supposedly. But as a bit of a cynic-optimist, a part of me wonders if enough has been done. Rape, sexual assault, prostitution, domestic violence, etc. all of these things are still parts of society, its as true in Canada or the US or Europe as it is in India, Uganda, and Nicaragua.
My question to you all is why? Especially women and decent men. Why do more people refuse to stand up for the women in our lives? What always surprises me down here in Latin America, is that men treat women as objects. They whistle, cat call, shout out “me amor” or “my love” at you. They hiss, they kiss, they grab. They sleep around (in fairness both sexes are guilty of that) and act out their lives like they are in a tele novella. But what I can’t understand is this, how does a father stand by and watch his daughter go through this. How does he not want to kill every man who so much looks at her funny, whistles, hoots, jeers. And the truth is that they do, but they are just as to lame as the rest of society for what happens. He probably has slept with another woman, he definitely covets another mans property every once in a while. But every time, there "she" is. His daughter, mother, aunt, sister.
What I want to know is why we don’t remember that how we treat our women is how we treat our next generation. The women, still traditionally for most of the world, not only bring into the world this next generation, but raise them. They teach them the culture and hopefully, how to live within it successfully.
What I wish is that more people lived knowing that a woman is not just a thing. She is a person. She has feelings, thoughts, desires, dreams, and passions. She does not need your protection unless you make her need it. She shouldn’t need to know how to defend herself from overly touchy drunks. She shouldn’t need to be on her guard if you, men (the disgusting ones), would behave yourself. She should feel safe because you want your whole community to feel safe.
Don’t get me wrong. I know there are women out there who sexually assault men and boys. There are some women capable of doing the same things too. When 1 in 4 women will be sexually assaulted, and 1 in 6 men, what exactly is it that we are trying to say to society. That this is ok? That we somehow have a right in positions of power to put seemingly vulnerable women and men into some sort of pigeon hole where we can do what we want with them?
I know, for the vast majority of you reading this, you will not be a part of my rant. You will likely (I hope) agree that things like sexual violence is absolutely ridiculous, horrifying, and terrible.
What I want is for society to wake up. To stop churning out movies like The Hangover that glorify men getting drunk and shirking responsibility. I want movies like He’s Just Not That Into You, to stop portraying women as crazy, love-lorn losers. What happened to such a novel thing as a role model? Someone who could help guide you through the slurry and confusion?
Moment of truth. I was once sexually assaulted. It was not by someone I knew, but a mototaxi driver when I was in Bangkok, Thailand. It was nothing more than a grope. But the truth is, that I don’t see myself as a victim. Instead I see all of ourselves as the victims. Where men, and some women, think that they are invincible. That they can grope a foreigner without repercussions. That you can molest a child because “you groomed them”. It is not ok.
I don’t have a solution. I don’t have any words to encourage you.I just had to say my peace. And my peace is that the next time someone tells a joke about rape, it’s not a joke. The next time someone talks about a sexual assault like it’s funny, it’s not. The next time you hear a court ruling that says a woman “asked’ to be attacked because she was wearing “suggestive” clothing, it does not mean she deserved what she got.
I ask of you to look for instances in your own life where you can diminish this gender inequality. It is time for men the world over to recognize the value of a woman. And women, it’s time for us to realize that we can be strong. We can demand more from our men. Have some self-respect. And if someone disrespects you, tries to use his power over you, to stand up and do something about it. Tell your story, to someone.
Caribbean insights
Today I find myself in Taganga, Colombia. Not a great distance from Santa Marta or Tayrona National Park. All thanks to a revelation.
For the past week I have been mopping. Not entirely sure why, when life is pretty grand. Sweater weather? Check. Awesome food? Check. Museums? Check. Perhaps not everyone’s ideal, but for me I loved it. I loved heading out of my hostel in a random direction and seeing sights that perhaps no one cared to notice. The fly in the ointment was definitely my attitude.
It’s not that I am ungrateful for where I am or what I’m doing. But something about it seems wrong. I think some part of me has read one to many blogs about “seeing every country” or blah blah that makes me want to do that too. But inherently, that’s not who I am. I don’t want to “go” to a country merely to cross it off of some list I have in my head. Instead I want to experience a place or just see a good majority of it anyway.
I can go to a hostel and eat good food in many a place. But will I have an opportunity to interact with the locals? Maybe. Last night I found myself talking to the receptionist/security guard at my hostel in Santa Marta about greed, corruption, governments, bad multinational companies, and life. It was inspiring and heartbreaking to hear that he felt the same way I did, yet had no idea how to rectify that.
And while it was a great conversation, at the same time he said something to me which seemed so innocent, yet for some reason had a profound impact on me.
“Why do you want to go to Cuidad Perdida?”
And I had really didn’t have an answer for him. Sure it sounds cool to go on a 6 day trek to the Lost City (and based on the photos, it looks amazing), but at the end of the day is it really what I want to do? And the answer was no. It’s not because it wouldn’t be cool or amazing. But the truth is, I don’t feel like it’s what I really want to do/see/pay for.
What I do want to do is to go to Peru. So within the next 24 hours I hope to have a plan to get there. After all I have roughly 74 days left to travel and I want to make the most of it where I really want to be.
For the past week I have been mopping. Not entirely sure why, when life is pretty grand. Sweater weather? Check. Awesome food? Check. Museums? Check. Perhaps not everyone’s ideal, but for me I loved it. I loved heading out of my hostel in a random direction and seeing sights that perhaps no one cared to notice. The fly in the ointment was definitely my attitude.
It’s not that I am ungrateful for where I am or what I’m doing. But something about it seems wrong. I think some part of me has read one to many blogs about “seeing every country” or blah blah that makes me want to do that too. But inherently, that’s not who I am. I don’t want to “go” to a country merely to cross it off of some list I have in my head. Instead I want to experience a place or just see a good majority of it anyway.
I can go to a hostel and eat good food in many a place. But will I have an opportunity to interact with the locals? Maybe. Last night I found myself talking to the receptionist/security guard at my hostel in Santa Marta about greed, corruption, governments, bad multinational companies, and life. It was inspiring and heartbreaking to hear that he felt the same way I did, yet had no idea how to rectify that.
And while it was a great conversation, at the same time he said something to me which seemed so innocent, yet for some reason had a profound impact on me.
“Why do you want to go to Cuidad Perdida?”
And I had really didn’t have an answer for him. Sure it sounds cool to go on a 6 day trek to the Lost City (and based on the photos, it looks amazing), but at the end of the day is it really what I want to do? And the answer was no. It’s not because it wouldn’t be cool or amazing. But the truth is, I don’t feel like it’s what I really want to do/see/pay for.
What I do want to do is to go to Peru. So within the next 24 hours I hope to have a plan to get there. After all I have roughly 74 days left to travel and I want to make the most of it where I really want to be.
Thursday, March 15, 2012
Wednesday, March 14, 2012
Delight = Bogota
Something about landing in a city post a sleepless night in an airport, eating three subway sandwiches and sitting next to a screaming kid, just make you overjoyed. Or ready to punch the next person you see, if you have an inner pent up rage like I seem to. Luckily, my rage did not win over and I was overjoyed this past Friday when I landed in Bogota.
It would be impossible for me to tell you just how ready I have been to head to South America. I made it a hard decision because I know that my family and friends worry about me. I know that there are real risks to being in Colombia (not all places, but certainly some). But all my qualms and issues were squashed as soon as I made it here. Firstly, it was lush and green. The city is in the valley of misty covered hills and there is a magic in the air. And something about the atmosphere of the City was calm and safe.
I arrived just in time to see the university students leave class and start milling around. I have never seen so many hipsters in my life. And the shoes here are incredible. Everyone here seems to care, greatly, about their appearance, looking more like they have left the runways in Milan then a place of learning. You see the students milling about in the Parque Periodistas, some of them even toting guitars with them. Somehow, I feel like I’m at home.
There are artesian markets in all the little squares in my district, La Candelaria, selling jewels and toques. But what I really needed was something to eat. I went to a place called Sanalejo, which inside looked like an old tavern, and had trolls painted on the walls. And artifacts like old blacksmith tools, skates, and more hanging from the walls. I selected a table in frount of the window, so I could people watch. I was not disappointed.
While I chowed down on an amazing salad, mashed potatoes, and coconut rice I watched as groups of young Colombians walked by with backpacks and old couples walking hand-in-hand. There really is something romantic about this city. Whether it is the gorgeous brick stadium, looking like it would be more at home in Morocco than in this capital, for the bull fights or the Museo de Oro (Gold Museum).
All I know is that I have fallen in love with Colombia. The Spanish squares, the chaos of this big city, the man in frount of a Church with a llama, and the world class museums all make me come to one conclusion. This is a world-class city.
Also the corner-store style grocers have totally won over my heart. You’re telling me I can find delicious fresh produce, like I would get from a farmers market, one block away? Sign me up. Though I still prefer the farm method of “picking it yourself”.
It would be impossible for me to tell you just how ready I have been to head to South America. I made it a hard decision because I know that my family and friends worry about me. I know that there are real risks to being in Colombia (not all places, but certainly some). But all my qualms and issues were squashed as soon as I made it here. Firstly, it was lush and green. The city is in the valley of misty covered hills and there is a magic in the air. And something about the atmosphere of the City was calm and safe.
I arrived just in time to see the university students leave class and start milling around. I have never seen so many hipsters in my life. And the shoes here are incredible. Everyone here seems to care, greatly, about their appearance, looking more like they have left the runways in Milan then a place of learning. You see the students milling about in the Parque Periodistas, some of them even toting guitars with them. Somehow, I feel like I’m at home.
There are artesian markets in all the little squares in my district, La Candelaria, selling jewels and toques. But what I really needed was something to eat. I went to a place called Sanalejo, which inside looked like an old tavern, and had trolls painted on the walls. And artifacts like old blacksmith tools, skates, and more hanging from the walls. I selected a table in frount of the window, so I could people watch. I was not disappointed.
While I chowed down on an amazing salad, mashed potatoes, and coconut rice I watched as groups of young Colombians walked by with backpacks and old couples walking hand-in-hand. There really is something romantic about this city. Whether it is the gorgeous brick stadium, looking like it would be more at home in Morocco than in this capital, for the bull fights or the Museo de Oro (Gold Museum).
All I know is that I have fallen in love with Colombia. The Spanish squares, the chaos of this big city, the man in frount of a Church with a llama, and the world class museums all make me come to one conclusion. This is a world-class city.
Also the corner-store style grocers have totally won over my heart. You’re telling me I can find delicious fresh produce, like I would get from a farmers market, one block away? Sign me up. Though I still prefer the farm method of “picking it yourself”.
Wednesday, March 7, 2012
Couchsurfing & canyons
My time in Esteli has mostly involved me being lame. Except for a few cool firsts I can cross off my bucket list. The first is that I couchsurfed for the first time here in Esteli.
Those unfamiliar with CouchSurfing can check it out here www.couchsurfing.org . Here you will find people willing to hand out a couch or bed for travelers, and travelers can find beds in places all over the world. At it’s best, it is an exchange of cultures, perceptions, opinions, and meet likeminded individuals. It is a way you can go to places and see the world and see the lives of locals or expats.
I feel fortunate that I had a positive first experience. I met my host in Leon and we ended up having a six hour conversation about life in Nicaragua, the good and the bad, our own lives, what inspired us to travel and experience new cultures, and just life in general. We talked about couchsurfing, the good and the bad too. It was one of those magical evenings where I felt really privileged to be there.
I ended up staying with my host for three nights. I enjoyed my time there and I got some well needed rest. I played with Kiya and Phoolan, my hosts dogs. I got annoyed when her three cats decided that whatever I was eating was the most important thing in the world. These moments those cats were shown no mercy. I take my food very seriously. I also enjoyed the guinea pigs and chickens. What I didn’t enjoy was the construction work outside and all around my room that commenced at 7:00am.
My host was also super busy, trying to make a living. So I made the decision to leave and try a hostel out. I headed to Hospedaje Luna to meet some fellow travelers and I heard the cafe which is part of the hospedaje is great. So off I went.
One of the things I have done since staying at this hospedaje was visit the Somoto canyon. I found myself up and on a bus by 7:33am and headed to Somoto. My tour guide was Franklin, who arrived at the bus station looking every bit the part of the suave Latin American. With a popped collar.
What I appreciated the most though about Franklin was that he wasn’t all that chatty. He didn’t feel the need to talk a lot, and considering how tired I was this ended up working out just fine. We did discuss things like family, religion, my relationship status. This also happened to be the first time I lied about having a boyfriend. While I am usually an advocate of honesty is the best policy and 99.99% of the time that is true, I got really annoyed of people trying to “put the moves” on me after they found out I was single.
Plus, it turned out that I had a canyon basically to myself. It was me, these ugly water trek shoes, and Franklin. At first we followed a mother and son walking home, in which they had to cross the Canyon. I have no idea how they’d do that during the rainy season when everything was 40 feet higher.
But the area of the Somoto Canyon reminded me of the Prairies back home. Now that Nicaragua is four months into the dry season everything here resembles the grasslands back home and the foothills near the Rockies. Even the smell of the dry soil reminded me of home. Even though during the rainy season this area is lush and green, right now it looks like Mother Nature told them to fend for themselves for six months while she took a nap.
But the canyon itself is mighty impressive. Apparently it is fed by three rivers, the most prominent being Rio Coco. Trying to go through the giant rocks and not trip and fall into them was quite the task. All in all though it was a totally worthwhile experience. We walked through the winding water, sticking mainly to the rocks for the first third of the journey. The middle portion was a combination of jumping into water and out again. The last bit was almost entirely swimming to get to the other side of the canyon.
It was so peaceful in this canyon. I could sit down and listen as the water rushed by on some important mission. Swimming while surrounded by 80 foot high cliffs and seeing clouds amble by. It was magical. It was tranquil. It was perfect.
When I finally made it to the other side of the canyon, there was a man waiting with a boat. We took a 5 minute boat ride to get to the other part of the river. From there it was a thirty minute walk on the banks of the river, passing cows, construction workers, and children on their way home from school. Even a toddler holding a comb who got flustered when I waved to her and she threw it behind her. I ran to pass it too her and I was given a sweet smile and “gracias” for my efforts.
We passed Franklin’s house where his little nephew came running onto the road crying. I asked what happened and he showed me some scratches on his face. He was so cute standing their in an Elmo t-shirt so sad about this new addition to his face. I tried to cheer him up, but he was too far gone into pain and misery. Only Franklin walking hand in hand with him was enough to calm him down.
Once back at the hostel, I was given my vegetarian meal which I scarfed down after the days journey. I talked with a couple from the Netherlands and a man from the Czech Republic who was sticking to rural areas. Kudos to him! We talked about our travels, where we were going, where we’ve been, and back home. But before long it was time for me to get back to Esteli.
The boys waited with me, and flirted shamelessly, while watching taxi’s full pass by going to and from the border with Honduras (a mere three kilometres away). Finally I managed to catch one which would take me back to Somoto...or so I thought. I did end up back at the bus station and found myself on the bus back to Esteli. I promptly fell asleep and ended up back in Esteli somehow.
Other highlights of the day included seeing three BMX guys showing off their tricks near the school in Somoto. The crowd was completely enthralled. As were 99% of the people on our bus. Or the little girl on the bus to the Somoto Canyon who stared at me intensely and would not respond to my questions of her name, age, or even return a greeting. Thanks, jerk!
All in all it was one of those quintessential days that everything seems to go smoothly, and somehow you are reminded that you are a very lucky person to be doing all this.
Those unfamiliar with CouchSurfing can check it out here www.couchsurfing.org . Here you will find people willing to hand out a couch or bed for travelers, and travelers can find beds in places all over the world. At it’s best, it is an exchange of cultures, perceptions, opinions, and meet likeminded individuals. It is a way you can go to places and see the world and see the lives of locals or expats.
I feel fortunate that I had a positive first experience. I met my host in Leon and we ended up having a six hour conversation about life in Nicaragua, the good and the bad, our own lives, what inspired us to travel and experience new cultures, and just life in general. We talked about couchsurfing, the good and the bad too. It was one of those magical evenings where I felt really privileged to be there.
I ended up staying with my host for three nights. I enjoyed my time there and I got some well needed rest. I played with Kiya and Phoolan, my hosts dogs. I got annoyed when her three cats decided that whatever I was eating was the most important thing in the world. These moments those cats were shown no mercy. I take my food very seriously. I also enjoyed the guinea pigs and chickens. What I didn’t enjoy was the construction work outside and all around my room that commenced at 7:00am.
My host was also super busy, trying to make a living. So I made the decision to leave and try a hostel out. I headed to Hospedaje Luna to meet some fellow travelers and I heard the cafe which is part of the hospedaje is great. So off I went.
One of the things I have done since staying at this hospedaje was visit the Somoto canyon. I found myself up and on a bus by 7:33am and headed to Somoto. My tour guide was Franklin, who arrived at the bus station looking every bit the part of the suave Latin American. With a popped collar.
What I appreciated the most though about Franklin was that he wasn’t all that chatty. He didn’t feel the need to talk a lot, and considering how tired I was this ended up working out just fine. We did discuss things like family, religion, my relationship status. This also happened to be the first time I lied about having a boyfriend. While I am usually an advocate of honesty is the best policy and 99.99% of the time that is true, I got really annoyed of people trying to “put the moves” on me after they found out I was single.
Plus, it turned out that I had a canyon basically to myself. It was me, these ugly water trek shoes, and Franklin. At first we followed a mother and son walking home, in which they had to cross the Canyon. I have no idea how they’d do that during the rainy season when everything was 40 feet higher.
But the area of the Somoto Canyon reminded me of the Prairies back home. Now that Nicaragua is four months into the dry season everything here resembles the grasslands back home and the foothills near the Rockies. Even the smell of the dry soil reminded me of home. Even though during the rainy season this area is lush and green, right now it looks like Mother Nature told them to fend for themselves for six months while she took a nap.
But the canyon itself is mighty impressive. Apparently it is fed by three rivers, the most prominent being Rio Coco. Trying to go through the giant rocks and not trip and fall into them was quite the task. All in all though it was a totally worthwhile experience. We walked through the winding water, sticking mainly to the rocks for the first third of the journey. The middle portion was a combination of jumping into water and out again. The last bit was almost entirely swimming to get to the other side of the canyon.
It was so peaceful in this canyon. I could sit down and listen as the water rushed by on some important mission. Swimming while surrounded by 80 foot high cliffs and seeing clouds amble by. It was magical. It was tranquil. It was perfect.
When I finally made it to the other side of the canyon, there was a man waiting with a boat. We took a 5 minute boat ride to get to the other part of the river. From there it was a thirty minute walk on the banks of the river, passing cows, construction workers, and children on their way home from school. Even a toddler holding a comb who got flustered when I waved to her and she threw it behind her. I ran to pass it too her and I was given a sweet smile and “gracias” for my efforts.
We passed Franklin’s house where his little nephew came running onto the road crying. I asked what happened and he showed me some scratches on his face. He was so cute standing their in an Elmo t-shirt so sad about this new addition to his face. I tried to cheer him up, but he was too far gone into pain and misery. Only Franklin walking hand in hand with him was enough to calm him down.
Once back at the hostel, I was given my vegetarian meal which I scarfed down after the days journey. I talked with a couple from the Netherlands and a man from the Czech Republic who was sticking to rural areas. Kudos to him! We talked about our travels, where we were going, where we’ve been, and back home. But before long it was time for me to get back to Esteli.
The boys waited with me, and flirted shamelessly, while watching taxi’s full pass by going to and from the border with Honduras (a mere three kilometres away). Finally I managed to catch one which would take me back to Somoto...or so I thought. I did end up back at the bus station and found myself on the bus back to Esteli. I promptly fell asleep and ended up back in Esteli somehow.
Other highlights of the day included seeing three BMX guys showing off their tricks near the school in Somoto. The crowd was completely enthralled. As were 99% of the people on our bus. Or the little girl on the bus to the Somoto Canyon who stared at me intensely and would not respond to my questions of her name, age, or even return a greeting. Thanks, jerk!
All in all it was one of those quintessential days that everything seems to go smoothly, and somehow you are reminded that you are a very lucky person to be doing all this.
 |
| My water trekking/ugly shoes |
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Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Confusion
Ever since I got the package from home, I hit a brick wall. For whatever reason I was sick of being in cities. I hated the inability to eat a consistently good diet (thank you rest stops and the fact that 95% of things you can order here are deep fried) and the constant feeling of not really doing much of anything. My problem with cities is that they do lack a certain something. Beyond trees.
I guess what I feel, and I’m sure you may disagree, is that a city is a city is a city. Sure the people may have a different colour skin, there may be different holidays to celebrate, different sides of the street to drive on, and different smells, but at the end of the day they are still strangely barren to me. The lack of vegetation in particular.
I also struggle with cities to an extent, because the bigger they are I find the more devoid they are. By that I mean, it’s not really like you are experiencing something new in a city. It’s just a slightly modified city to the last city you were in. For example, back home I could go eat humus, go for a walk in a “central park”, take day excursions to natural sites nearby. I could go to a bar, I could go kickboxing, I could go DO things. And more importantly I could go do these things with awesome people, like my friends and family.
Instead I am doing them with strangers. And sometimes, that is a great thing. You meet some cool, crazy, wonderful people while traveling. But sometimes, I hate starting from square one. I hate going through the “who are you? Where are you from? what did you do back home? how long are you traveling?” bit. It gets old.
The farms are great because you have a month to connect. Even staying for a week in a hostel is an interesting shift of people. But at the end of the day, I’m not a fan.
THUS, this led me to think that perhaps my time had come to head back home. Or at least to something familiar. In my mind this amounted to a cross-Canada roadtrip or volunteering on a permaculture farm in Hawaii.
But I had an epiphany of sorts post-Volcano boarding. I realized that life is about the thrill. And when in your life do you get to be so selfish as to leave for eight months and blow your money on hostels and stupid things like volcano boarding. Traveling is about pushing your boundaries.
While I know that my time here has been incredible, I also know that I am ready for a new challenge. I felt like I had seen what Central America had to offer and had a great experience living with the locals and getting to know them. But I wasn’t ready to turn back home for something “normal” either.
I felt like the first part of this trip can be summed up to my epiphany moment just past Santa Cruz. But I know that I’m not quite done yet either. I have more space to grow and expand. I just need a change of scenery.
Thus on March 9, 2012 I will arrive in Bogota, Colombia. Ready for a new continent, a new set of rules and customs, and a totally new experience.
I guess what I feel, and I’m sure you may disagree, is that a city is a city is a city. Sure the people may have a different colour skin, there may be different holidays to celebrate, different sides of the street to drive on, and different smells, but at the end of the day they are still strangely barren to me. The lack of vegetation in particular.
I also struggle with cities to an extent, because the bigger they are I find the more devoid they are. By that I mean, it’s not really like you are experiencing something new in a city. It’s just a slightly modified city to the last city you were in. For example, back home I could go eat humus, go for a walk in a “central park”, take day excursions to natural sites nearby. I could go to a bar, I could go kickboxing, I could go DO things. And more importantly I could go do these things with awesome people, like my friends and family.
Instead I am doing them with strangers. And sometimes, that is a great thing. You meet some cool, crazy, wonderful people while traveling. But sometimes, I hate starting from square one. I hate going through the “who are you? Where are you from? what did you do back home? how long are you traveling?” bit. It gets old.
The farms are great because you have a month to connect. Even staying for a week in a hostel is an interesting shift of people. But at the end of the day, I’m not a fan.
THUS, this led me to think that perhaps my time had come to head back home. Or at least to something familiar. In my mind this amounted to a cross-Canada roadtrip or volunteering on a permaculture farm in Hawaii.
But I had an epiphany of sorts post-Volcano boarding. I realized that life is about the thrill. And when in your life do you get to be so selfish as to leave for eight months and blow your money on hostels and stupid things like volcano boarding. Traveling is about pushing your boundaries.
While I know that my time here has been incredible, I also know that I am ready for a new challenge. I felt like I had seen what Central America had to offer and had a great experience living with the locals and getting to know them. But I wasn’t ready to turn back home for something “normal” either.
I felt like the first part of this trip can be summed up to my epiphany moment just past Santa Cruz. But I know that I’m not quite done yet either. I have more space to grow and expand. I just need a change of scenery.
Thus on March 9, 2012 I will arrive in Bogota, Colombia. Ready for a new continent, a new set of rules and customs, and a totally new experience.
Tobogganing, Nicaraguan style
This past week I did something I had wanted to do since I cracked my first Lonely Planet guide for this trip. Volcano boarding! Or as I like to think of it “Volcano Tobogganing”.
I was the last passenger in our van, the youngest person by far. There were 5 Canadians, 1 British woman, a man from the Netherlands, and a Nicaraguan woman. We must have looked like a strange crew. Especially when our shuttle bus pulled over to replace a wonky tire.
In true Nicaraguan fashion, the “tire store” was nothing more than a simple wooden home with a man and what I assume was his grandson resting on the hammock outside. I would have taken photos if I weren’t confrounted by the WORST thing that tourists do. My fellows on the bus were all running around pointing and clicking their cameras at EVERYTHING. Sure there was a lot to see, like the chicks dyed pink, yellow, and green. There were the chocoyos (parrots) with clipped wings sitting on the seat. There was an adorable little puppy chasing the chickens. And then there was the family themselves, with that tiny grandson and grandpa sleeping on the hammock.
It was charming. Until we arrived. Instead I humoured myself by observing the clicking and cooing of my fellow tourists, while the Nicaraguan woman and I played with the grandson. We enjoyed making faces at him and having him hold my finger with his tiny, tiny hands. That to me was more magical than a photo of some weird looking chicks. Although it would have been funny too.
WIthin a few moments we were off and running again. We took this bumpy country road to reach Cerro Negro. A part of me loved this long winded trip. In part due to the hilarity of talking to the other tourists on my bus, all of which were over the age of 30, some nearing 50. But for me the more important thing was seeing the country life again. The simple homes, the ox driven carts, the kids walking home from school, and the men trying to make a living. It reminded me a lot of my time in Balgue and I found myself wistfully looking out the window, wishing I could join these people and ride on the ox-pulled carts.
Instead I was whisked off to the visitors centre to write my name, nationality, age, and sex. THEN finally we were getting ready to head out on our 45 minute hike. What was a surprising addition to our journey, beyond random attempts to capture the right song to describe our adventure, was the wind. It was blowing like it had debts to collect. I was blown around (thanks to my new “board” wings) and it was a difficult trek. Right as we reached the top of the big crater, our guide had to direct us on a different path, to avoid the wind.
We made our way down into the crater and passed sulphur gas clouds and the green tinted rocks surrounding the plume. We summited the volcano and we finally had arrived at our end destination...sort of.
The next stage, after some high five-ing our achievement to summit, was to don the ever-so-sexy janitor style outfits to prepare ourselves for volcano boarding. I think this photo sums up all the sexiness perfectly:
It was decided that the youngest should go first, and thus I found myself plunging down the hill. I rode that hill like I was an old rodeo hand. I had my right hand in the air, my left scraping along the earth hoping to keep some composure. But, by the time I hit the steepest part of the volcano, I was ready. I kicked into high gear and flew down the hill! Nearing the base though, things started to get a little tricky.
I hit air. I must have hit a bump someone else’s wipeout left behind, because suddenly I felt my board leave the ground. I crashed and recovered once, twice, but the third time I was lurched forward. Face first into a pile of crusty and sharp lava. For the nerds out there, I believe it was “pahoehoe” lava, so at least I wasn’t careening into lava sharp enough to kill me.
However in true comedic fashion my faceplant was not an incident seen by no one. Not only did my own crew see my wipeout, but a previous group was kind enough to stick around at watch it all go down. Everyone seemed delighted that no lasting damage was done to my face, except a cut or two on my chin.
Instead I was congratulated on my “incredible speed” and my daring for doing such a thing. The six men standing around watching seemingly couldn’t believe that a woman would do such a thing. Or at speed. Perhaps it was because the woman in their group returned. But all I know is that they seemed shocked. And they were in for further surprises, seeing as our group of eight only had two men...
All too soon, we were piled into the car again and headed to the office again for a quick snack and chat before going back to Leon.
I was the last passenger in our van, the youngest person by far. There were 5 Canadians, 1 British woman, a man from the Netherlands, and a Nicaraguan woman. We must have looked like a strange crew. Especially when our shuttle bus pulled over to replace a wonky tire.
In true Nicaraguan fashion, the “tire store” was nothing more than a simple wooden home with a man and what I assume was his grandson resting on the hammock outside. I would have taken photos if I weren’t confrounted by the WORST thing that tourists do. My fellows on the bus were all running around pointing and clicking their cameras at EVERYTHING. Sure there was a lot to see, like the chicks dyed pink, yellow, and green. There were the chocoyos (parrots) with clipped wings sitting on the seat. There was an adorable little puppy chasing the chickens. And then there was the family themselves, with that tiny grandson and grandpa sleeping on the hammock.
It was charming. Until we arrived. Instead I humoured myself by observing the clicking and cooing of my fellow tourists, while the Nicaraguan woman and I played with the grandson. We enjoyed making faces at him and having him hold my finger with his tiny, tiny hands. That to me was more magical than a photo of some weird looking chicks. Although it would have been funny too.
WIthin a few moments we were off and running again. We took this bumpy country road to reach Cerro Negro. A part of me loved this long winded trip. In part due to the hilarity of talking to the other tourists on my bus, all of which were over the age of 30, some nearing 50. But for me the more important thing was seeing the country life again. The simple homes, the ox driven carts, the kids walking home from school, and the men trying to make a living. It reminded me a lot of my time in Balgue and I found myself wistfully looking out the window, wishing I could join these people and ride on the ox-pulled carts.
Instead I was whisked off to the visitors centre to write my name, nationality, age, and sex. THEN finally we were getting ready to head out on our 45 minute hike. What was a surprising addition to our journey, beyond random attempts to capture the right song to describe our adventure, was the wind. It was blowing like it had debts to collect. I was blown around (thanks to my new “board” wings) and it was a difficult trek. Right as we reached the top of the big crater, our guide had to direct us on a different path, to avoid the wind.
 |
| Pre-tobogganing |
We made our way down into the crater and passed sulphur gas clouds and the green tinted rocks surrounding the plume. We summited the volcano and we finally had arrived at our end destination...sort of.
The next stage, after some high five-ing our achievement to summit, was to don the ever-so-sexy janitor style outfits to prepare ourselves for volcano boarding. I think this photo sums up all the sexiness perfectly:
 |
| Note, the socks. Very stylish! |
It was decided that the youngest should go first, and thus I found myself plunging down the hill. I rode that hill like I was an old rodeo hand. I had my right hand in the air, my left scraping along the earth hoping to keep some composure. But, by the time I hit the steepest part of the volcano, I was ready. I kicked into high gear and flew down the hill! Nearing the base though, things started to get a little tricky.
I hit air. I must have hit a bump someone else’s wipeout left behind, because suddenly I felt my board leave the ground. I crashed and recovered once, twice, but the third time I was lurched forward. Face first into a pile of crusty and sharp lava. For the nerds out there, I believe it was “pahoehoe” lava, so at least I wasn’t careening into lava sharp enough to kill me.
However in true comedic fashion my faceplant was not an incident seen by no one. Not only did my own crew see my wipeout, but a previous group was kind enough to stick around at watch it all go down. Everyone seemed delighted that no lasting damage was done to my face, except a cut or two on my chin.
Instead I was congratulated on my “incredible speed” and my daring for doing such a thing. The six men standing around watching seemingly couldn’t believe that a woman would do such a thing. Or at speed. Perhaps it was because the woman in their group returned. But all I know is that they seemed shocked. And they were in for further surprises, seeing as our group of eight only had two men...
 |
| Post-volcano boarding...looking pleased! |
All too soon, we were piled into the car again and headed to the office again for a quick snack and chat before going back to Leon.
Thursday, March 1, 2012
Success!!!
After about a week of painstaking efforts to attain this package from home, I finally have it. In my hands. It only took the following.
So beyond the whole, $20 in phone bills, night spent in Rivas, Masaya, and Managua, I only had to make it to the Customs Office and get my package. As you should know by now, this sounds SO much easier than it is in reality.
I headed to the mall to catch a taxi. Made it too the Customs Office and was confounded by what I saw. I thought it would be a simple thing to enter, get my package and leave. Instead I realized that it was anything but.
There was a group of people waiting outside, locals, all holding pieces of paper and had a number. People kept telling me I needed a number and that I should have been there earlier to get a number. I am ashamed to admit that I refused this as an answer. Clearly as a tourist, things are different for me. Right?
So I headed to the other gate and asked the gentlemen there. He told me that this entrance was only for the trucks. I had to wait. When I returned however to the second gate, with the milling crowd the security guard approached me. He asked me for my papers and took them with him. For 10 minutes I watched him from behind the gates as he talked to officials and then ultimately disappeared.
He returned and asked me to come in. I nearly fell to the ground with thankfulness. I definitely didn’t want to spend another 3 days waiting to get this package. Especially in Managua. I was ushered in and taken to the office. I was greeted by an interpreter. He told me that things had changed in the processing of the boxes and that it might take a while.
I was ushered into an office and talked to an “official”. They told me what was going to happen, and then they finally asked if I spoke Spanish. I told them enough. Which was true. I was then ushered into the waiting room. Magically my number was called next. I was told to leave my bag with the security guard. This made me extremely uncomfortable as this is EVERYTHING I own. However, for security reasons I could not take my bag with me.
I got my papers stamped and printed out, and had the slightest of panic attacks when they photo copied my entrance into Nicaragua. This would be the same one that indicates I left Nicaragua and returned on the same day. The woman behind the desk had several conversations with my passport in hand and I kept hoping that it was unrelated to my passport.
Seemingly it was, because within moments I was told to go and retrieve my package. I had to go get a customs agent, then retrieve my package, then have him go through my box, get his ok, leave and await my package on the outside. And for the most part this is exactly how it went. My customs agent was a funny older man who I enjoyed conversing with in Spanish.
Together we opened up the package from home. I saw the contents for the first time with two Nicaraguan men standing there with me. I’m grateful my parents didn’t send anything awkward, like underwear or worse! Instead I got to see the two tubes of Tom’s Toothpaste, dental floss, bobby pins, three quick dry shirts, Larabars, a bathing suit, some makeup, socks, two home videos, and a card.
Once the package was opened, I could have cried. I could tell that the customs guy felt like he was intruding on something that clearly wasn’t harboring anything. He started making jokes about the clothing (and it’s largeness) which was exactly what the situation needed. We were joking about what things were and exchanging words in Spanish and English.
Finally he told me to go out and wait for my number again. Then I could come back in to get my package and finally leave. Within minutes I had my package and was walking out with it. My bag, safe and sound waiting for me as I left. I walked out of the compound, into a taxi and headed straight for the bus station to take me to Leon.
Got to experience the clanging of bells of the ice cream venders, the hollering of “AGUA-GUA-GUA-GUA” by those selling bags of water and juice. It was nice to have things to pass the time, because I had to wait an hour to catch my express bus. The entire time I stood there with my worldly possessions and my box filled with love from home.
I waited until I found a hostel to sleep in before cracking open the package again. I spent my night watching the home videos my parents sent, and I felt so homesick.
So thanks Mom and Dad for giving me the gifts and the feeling of being home even when I am miles away. I miss you guys!
So beyond the whole, $20 in phone bills, night spent in Rivas, Masaya, and Managua, I only had to make it to the Customs Office and get my package. As you should know by now, this sounds SO much easier than it is in reality.
I headed to the mall to catch a taxi. Made it too the Customs Office and was confounded by what I saw. I thought it would be a simple thing to enter, get my package and leave. Instead I realized that it was anything but.
There was a group of people waiting outside, locals, all holding pieces of paper and had a number. People kept telling me I needed a number and that I should have been there earlier to get a number. I am ashamed to admit that I refused this as an answer. Clearly as a tourist, things are different for me. Right?
So I headed to the other gate and asked the gentlemen there. He told me that this entrance was only for the trucks. I had to wait. When I returned however to the second gate, with the milling crowd the security guard approached me. He asked me for my papers and took them with him. For 10 minutes I watched him from behind the gates as he talked to officials and then ultimately disappeared.
He returned and asked me to come in. I nearly fell to the ground with thankfulness. I definitely didn’t want to spend another 3 days waiting to get this package. Especially in Managua. I was ushered in and taken to the office. I was greeted by an interpreter. He told me that things had changed in the processing of the boxes and that it might take a while.
I was ushered into an office and talked to an “official”. They told me what was going to happen, and then they finally asked if I spoke Spanish. I told them enough. Which was true. I was then ushered into the waiting room. Magically my number was called next. I was told to leave my bag with the security guard. This made me extremely uncomfortable as this is EVERYTHING I own. However, for security reasons I could not take my bag with me.
I got my papers stamped and printed out, and had the slightest of panic attacks when they photo copied my entrance into Nicaragua. This would be the same one that indicates I left Nicaragua and returned on the same day. The woman behind the desk had several conversations with my passport in hand and I kept hoping that it was unrelated to my passport.
Seemingly it was, because within moments I was told to go and retrieve my package. I had to go get a customs agent, then retrieve my package, then have him go through my box, get his ok, leave and await my package on the outside. And for the most part this is exactly how it went. My customs agent was a funny older man who I enjoyed conversing with in Spanish.
Together we opened up the package from home. I saw the contents for the first time with two Nicaraguan men standing there with me. I’m grateful my parents didn’t send anything awkward, like underwear or worse! Instead I got to see the two tubes of Tom’s Toothpaste, dental floss, bobby pins, three quick dry shirts, Larabars, a bathing suit, some makeup, socks, two home videos, and a card.
Once the package was opened, I could have cried. I could tell that the customs guy felt like he was intruding on something that clearly wasn’t harboring anything. He started making jokes about the clothing (and it’s largeness) which was exactly what the situation needed. We were joking about what things were and exchanging words in Spanish and English.
Finally he told me to go out and wait for my number again. Then I could come back in to get my package and finally leave. Within minutes I had my package and was walking out with it. My bag, safe and sound waiting for me as I left. I walked out of the compound, into a taxi and headed straight for the bus station to take me to Leon.
Got to experience the clanging of bells of the ice cream venders, the hollering of “AGUA-GUA-GUA-GUA” by those selling bags of water and juice. It was nice to have things to pass the time, because I had to wait an hour to catch my express bus. The entire time I stood there with my worldly possessions and my box filled with love from home.
I waited until I found a hostel to sleep in before cracking open the package again. I spent my night watching the home videos my parents sent, and I felt so homesick.
So thanks Mom and Dad for giving me the gifts and the feeling of being home even when I am miles away. I miss you guys!
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