Return to Nicaragua

« Return to Nicaragua

Phil and Gemma have taken over Bigfoot Hostel in Leon, and they’ve got their system down, their smiles up, and their shit sorted. En-route from Managua to Leon, they reckon the best place to wash off the gloom of grime is in a fresh, clean and clear volcanic lake at Laguna De Apoyo. Crater’s Edge is run by Vancouverites who have carved out their slice of paradise with a property overlooking the stunning crater lake. I like places that pay attention to details, and they’ve done a bang-up job. The contrast between the morning’s encounter with poverty, leaving a coffee-stained ring of despair around the circles of our eyes, and the sheer beauty and atmosphere of Crater Lake, was stark. Under bright stars, we dine, drink and dance, swimming to a wooden jetty, screaming like banshees into the night. Well at least I did, and when I couldn’t see a moon, I decided to give the night one. Off go the bathing suits. Says Ann, just after dinner:
“Make yourself at home. The water is 27C, clean, with nothing that can hurt you whatsoever. Have fun!” And oh boy, we did.

Hell returns the following morning in the form of a rum hangover. Good, cheap coffee helps (50c for an espresso, anyone?), but I still see stars when I close my eyes. We stop off to visit Angel Miguel in the town of San Juan de Orienta, which is trying to revert its name to the original Mud Plates, where Nicaraguan pottery was founded. We watch Miguel take a lump of clay and effortlessly mould it into a ceramic bowl, pot, or vase. As with many villages in the country, small houses are brightly painted, walling along narrow streets with low hanging trees. Two little girls smile at me from the doorway of the local church. A teenage couple flirt against an orange wall, oblivious to my observations. That they are so unself-conscious feels like a gift. Miguel demonstrates his craft and I take my seat at the low-spinning wheel, attempting to make art, when we all know I’m going to make one hell of a mess. It doesn’t take long before I’ve got a clay facial, mud all over my clothes, and a cow patty, which, with some quick thinking, gets called an ashtray.

Darryn, the crazy Aussie who figured out exactly how to sandboard down Cerro Negra without killing oneself, sold his hostel and operation to Phillip of Barbados, and tours continue to leave Bigfoot daily loaded with backpackers eager to enjoy the latest, greatest activity on the Central American gringo trail. Due for eruption, Cerro Negra is a perfect cone of hard, sharp black granite, sitting as just one pearl in a necklace of volcanoes surrounding Leon. Darryn tried fridge doors and mattresses before settling on strips of wood, affixed with metal and plastic stabilizers, and a design that allows you to sit, hold on tight, and hope you don’t tumble down the rocks. Although you wear protective orange overalls and plastic goggles, more than one sled has tipped, depositing its rider into the granite, resulting in cuts, bruises, and the occasional gash. Not that anyone really minds, it’s too much fun.

It’s a 45 minute drive out of Leon at the back of an open-top 4×4, exposed to the blazing sun and tales of traveller ribaldry. Cerro Negra, the youngest volcano in Central America, lies within a national park, and I take the opportunity to cuddle a couple iguanas at the entrance, protected and bred to be released into the wild. Later I would see men peddling iguanas on the side of the highway, a key ingredient in a local soup. I’m sure they taste like chicken.

We grab our boards, and begin a strenuous climb around the back of the volcano. It doesn’t take long before we crest along the lip, where the wind is cranked and you can barely hear each other speak. Gas and fumes rise ominously from the crater below, and you can see the lava flow from the last eruption in August 1999, which covered Leon in ash and destroyed the surrounding scrub. It looks like a large tin of black paint tipped over, smothering bush in inky goo, hardened in the unforgiving sun. If the volcano were to erupt today, everyone would be instantly incinerated. Says Kim from Sydney: “I can see it already, in a newspaper, a story about backpackers killed on some volcano in Nicaragua, and everyone thinking, ‘well of course, what the hell were they doing there in the first place, the idiots!’”

Cerro Negra will erupt one day, but not this day. We make it to the launch pad just in time to catch another perfect sunset. There’s no time to run into the crater as I did last time, but plenty time to experience wind so strong it creates new hairstyles. Last week I got the icy blast in the Rockies, this week, a hot blast in the bush. As a force of nature, wind can be truly exhilarating.

Arms straight, back up, use your feet to stabilize. Sean gives me the OK. We’re the first TV crew to film this properly, and we’re going to do it right. The countdown, and I’m off. Black sand, stone and rocks flies into my face, scratching my knuckles, grinding against the wood and metal. I’m wired for sound but can’t speak or I’ll be eating granite. A large bump almost sends my flying, but somehow I stay on, a backpacker cowboy at a wild volcano rodeo. A speed gun is a new addition, and someone clocked 72 km/hr yesterday. I’m nowhere near that speed, but I don’t need to be going fun to enjoy this descent. We’ve timed it with the last spike of sunshine, and no sooner do I hit the bottom then the sky turns the shade of a glowing blueberry. Michael runs up for a reaction, and all I can do is drop the F-Bomb, lean back and scream. Cold beers are presented, wounds are called for (nobody tumbled on this day). We look like we’ve just emerged from a coal mine. On the drive home, I hop aboard the roof, watch the stars pop from the sky, and wave at young boys riding bareback on skinny horses. I called this the hottest edge of adventure tourism a few years ago. It still is. On the front door of Bigfoot Hostel is a clipping from the Chicago Tribune. It’s called “How to Ride a Wild Volcano”. It’s author is Robin Esrock.

Back at the hostel, enjoying the best pizza in the city, a couple mojitos and whatnot, I realize that nothing has changed much in Leon these past few years, and hopefully nothing will. Politically and economically, Nicaragua appears to be at the mercy of its populist president Daniel Ortega. Corruption and poverty is rampant, and Gemma reminds me that visiting any country as a tourist, as opposed to actually live there, are two very different beasts. The Internet is down for a couple days, roads are in disrepair, service is slow, and bribes must be paid. These and other aspects might keep Nicaragua from becoming Costa Rica, at least for the meantime. And for the meantime, we the canaries don’t seem to mind.

Matagulpa,
Continental Flight Managua to Houston
30 April 2009

Gonzo Gallery for Return to Nicaragua

view full gallery

Tweet