Having wiled away our last day on Big Corn Island and with the weather looking like it was beginning to turn we were very much ready for our departure and to get back on the road again.
Our flight was at 0745 and with a minimum check-in time of 90 minutes we had to shake a leg in order to get there by then. By chance our hotel restaurant opened at 0600 and with the 'early turn' arriving by cab we had transport available meaning we were actually at the airport before any staff were.
Once we'd checked in for our flight and been subjected to the most scrupulous hand luggage search imaginable (flicking through every page of my diary, opening my tube of air-bed glue and checking to see if my glasses case had a false bottom is surely a tad over zealous in anyone's book) we sat in the departure lounge and awaited the arrival of our plane from Managua.
At about 0730 we heard the now familiar pitter patter of globulous rain drops on a corrugated iron roof and listened as a tropical storm homed in on the island and unleashed its fury upon us.
For all the rain we've encountered over the past month this was the real deal. A deafening rattle from above as though skip loads of marbles were being emptied out on the roof, rivers of water cascading over the inadequate guttering, fork lightning penetrating the recently descended gloom outside and claps of thunder loud enough to burst eardrums.
If you know your Carry On films it was reminiscent of the weather which greeted Dr Nookey at Gladstone Screwer's tropical practise in Carry On Again Doctor.
A few minutes later all power was lost so we were plunged into near darkness and with the runway already resembling a lake our prospects of flying seemed to be diminishing. A slight air of desperation enveloped us; we had to leave, spending any more time here would do our crust.
Two whole hours passed with no let up in the weather. The power intermittently came and went but we began to expect to be told "no flight today" rather than dread it.
Then the gloom lifted for about 10 minutes, after which the silence was broken by a small plane coming in to land. In fact, it was a very small plane, probably a 20-seater, no way big enough for the 40-odd people waiting with us.
It wasn't our plane as it turned out, it was only going to Bluefields about 45 miles away and a handful of passengers were called forward to board it.
As it taxied up the runway the storm returned with a vengeance and as it took off a terrific flash of lightning directly overhead and incredibly loud clap of thunder saw every one of us still in the departure lounge thanking our lucky stars we weren't aboard.
Another hour passed before our plane finally arrived and we were quickly ushered outside into the rain to board it.
We took off straight away, presumably to take advantage of the fact that it was now only pouring with rain and howling a gale rather than what we'd previously experienced.
I'm not the greatest flyer in the world if truth be known so to take to stormy skies in a piddling little 40-seater was not my idea of fun.
I always worry whether my pilot may have had a row with the wife or something but in addition to that concern we had the indecently quick turnaround and the weather to factor in.
Never mind; closed eyes, happy thoughts, buttocks clenched; that'll see me through, as ever.
Half way through I was wondering what all the fuss was about, it was as smooth a flight as I've had with the reassuring drone of the propellers right outside our window.
Then, just as the hostess was administering sweet bread to us the plane dipped alarmingly, inducing screams from the rear of the plane.
It wasn't that bad in hindsight but the tail end of Isaac we'd been exposed to earlier had probably given everyone the willies.
Once we'd reclaimed our baggage we took a taxi all the way to Granada, some 30 miles away.
This isn't the extravagance it first seems. The ride cost £20 and was door to door in less than an hour. When considered against: taxi into town, chicken bus to Granada bus station and then more case wheeling through cobbled streets it was money well spent.
Overtaking horses and carts, chicken buses, tractors and cyclists travelling towards us in our lane, we sped to our chosen hotel at a rate of knots. Even in the back of a relatively well-maintained car did my backside cane, suggesting that Guatemalan and particularly El Salvadorean chicken buses have wreaked permanent damage.
Drizzle greeted us, as did building works at the "Casa Sacuanjoche" meaning it was closed. Cue seething, cries of "typical" and a hunt for some adequate digs to sate my fair travelling companion.
As luck would have it the gentleman next door had rooms for rent so we went inside to have a gander.
Focusing solely on getting out of the rain and settled I was oblivious to our prospective hosts slightly creepy demeanour. I had of course noticed his friend asleep in a chair wearing nothing but underpants and a vest as we'd walked through the parlour but it's humid here, why be encumbered by clothes in your mates house if he's happy for you to pass out in your grots before him?
The room was a little dingy but the bed was comfortable and the 50's furniture seemed to lend an authentic Nicaraguan air to it.
Yes, this would do nicely.
I was absolutely busting for the loo, the day's events thus far preventing me from adhering to my usual timetable of ablutions, so before I'd even taken my small rucksack off my back I was waving goodbye to last nights beautiful meal via the tradesman's.
As I did so Kerry began vocalising a list of problems: no mosquito netting, air bricks with holes big enough for tarantulas to get in, a mosquito net above the bed which is so situated that you cannot have the fan on at night, the owner reminded her of Norman Bates, there were huge spider webs on the ceilings.
That last point was enough for me but what really sealed it was the fact that the loo wouldn't flush.
I went to see about getting our money back, armed with the Spanish for "musty, cobweb infested hell-hole and the wife ain't happy" but before I could get beyond "we cannot stay here señor" he was waving my $20 note in my direction with a look of resignation on his face.
I felt slightly guilty at leaving my calling card in the toilet but consoled myself that it was at least a 'firm' day.
Brimming with confidence on account of our rejecting the Bates Motel we turned down several rooms before happening across an absolute diamond.
The room was right on the main square overlooking the cathedral and was a grand affair, formerly part of a colonial building used by dignitaries and other nobs. Its high ceilings, heavy wooden doors and balcony overlooking the square were great features, as was the fact that breakfast was included courtesy of our Dutch host and his Nicaraguan wife.
Finally settled, we ate lunch before having a little look at the town in the area immediately around the square.
Granada was once the capital of Nicaragua, inaugurated by the Spaniards and an important city for its location on Lake Managua which has a route to the Caribbean and therefore Europe.
It has the classic grid pattern of streets, the central plaza and the smattering of churches that you come to expect, along with the cobbles, high humidity and broken pavements that also feature prominently over here.
Being shattered from our early rise we left most of the city until the following day, though we did enjoy our cheapest meal here that first night, £1.70 for an 'all-you-can-eat' buffet.
After our complimentary breakfast of fried bananas, scrambled eggs, rice & beans and a slab of fried cheese we set off towards a nearby church where we could climb the bell tower to get a great view of the whole city.
Over the course of the next few hours we visited several more churches, the old railway station, the ruin of an old hospital and spent a glorious hour in a chocolate museum consuming as much as our consciences would allow.
(Me a lot, Kerry not much).
Granada really is a beautiful, if slightly faded, old town and is the biggest draw from a tourism perspective in the whole country. It's people are so friendly and it was lovely to be somewhere with a bit of life after our week travelling to and on the Corn Islands.
But, as is our wont, we were off again on Saturday morning, heading to the Isla de Ometepe, an island formed way back when, by two volcanoes emerging from Lake Nicaragua.
We took a taxi to the bus 'station', during which our driver was trying to tell us something which we just couldn't grasp. In the end he gave up and just deposited us where we'd asked to be dropped, whereupon we discovered we were in the wrong place for the bus we wanted.
Why our taxi driver couldn't have made this plain to us using words we know I'm uncertain.
A dreadful failing on his part!
We took another cab to a market on the south side of town but as we got out a slightly crazed individual was rattling something else unintelligible at us. My tolerance of our inability to understand what's going on is wearing rather thin but we eventually grasped the fact that he was trying to tell us our bus had just left and the next one wasn't for two hours.
In a scene worthy of a tacky Hollywood movie we set off in pursuit, weaving through traffic and cutting up cyclists, horses and carts and an errant cow which was wandering down the road before we caught the bus and drove in front of it to force it to stop and let us on.
An hour later we were invited to leave the bus, another example of being oiked out in the middle of nowhere without the foggiest idea what's going on.
A lone taxi was available so we exercised our one and only option for the 3 mile journey to San Jorge, the port for Ometepe, enjoying a chat with the amiable young driver on the way.
My opinion of him changed when we reached our destination and he asked for $10 for the ride which, according to the guidebook, should cost 30p each.
I gave him £2, the smallest note we had and told him to be grateful.
The ferry chugged across Lake Nicaragua at walking pace which did give us the opportunity to chat at length with a group of Christian missionaries who were coming here for a month to work with children. When we arrived we faced the usual gamut of people wanting a slice of the gringo pie but we ignored all of them with a cheery smile and made for the 'American Hotel' on account of its large rooms, hot water and advert outside for home-made chocolate cake.
The island was described as a "must see" but though it was interesting it wouldn't go down as a highlight of the trip for either of us.
On Saturday afternoon we cycled to the fabled "Punta de Jesus Maria", a spit of sand extending out into the lake for the best swimming on the Isla.
Once our creaking heaps had carried us the five miles there (it's only three but we missed the turning) we found a turgid and miserable place with dirty looking black sand, litter everywhere and water that looked about as inviting to swim in as a sewage farm.
Underwhelmed, we cycled back and went out to eat a huge and almost raw steak that evening, our Argentinian host patently trying to get one over on the English for the sinking of the Belgrano by seriously undercooking our meat.
The power cut we experienced mid-meal did at least deny us the sight of blood spurting out of our food with each incision.
The next day was fun as we hired a moped to explore the island properly, an exercise in pig, cow and horse evasion as they're roaming all over the oche here.
First up was a nature walk at a place called Charco Verde where we saw ants the size of kidney beans and more lizards than you could shake a stick at.
After that we went to "Ojo de Agua", a pool with supposed healing properties which is filled by water generated by one of the volcanoes.
Whether this was true mattered not, the cool water was just what we needed by way of relief from the heat of the day and it was a glorious couple of hours spent in the tranquil surroundings here.
We ate here too, sitting at a table under a thatched roof to consume our repast. We both felt a little itch during the meal but nothing really to suggest that two days later we would be covered in red welts all over our torsos. The gnats must have thought it was Christmas, two juicy and near-naked whiteys to get their teeth into.
Fascinating as the island was it had little else to hold our attention for much longer, unless we wanted to climb another volcano, so we decided to get back to the mainland and be in position for the next days leg, to Costa Rica.
As we sailed away the mist cleared and we had spectacular views of the two peaks which form the island.
Almost as arresting was a young German guy on the boat covered from head to toe in tattoos.
Quite what he himself will think of his calf bearing the slogan "All hippies must die" in later life is debatable but probably similar to prospective employers opinion of his inked knuckles.
We spent Sunday night in Rivas, a rather uninspiring town chosen for its location on the Pan-American highway and therefore a direct bus next day to Costa Rica.
Our final night in Nicaragua was spent in a hospedaje, rooms in a family home, and typically friendly the family we stayed with were too.
Our flight was at 0745 and with a minimum check-in time of 90 minutes we had to shake a leg in order to get there by then. By chance our hotel restaurant opened at 0600 and with the 'early turn' arriving by cab we had transport available meaning we were actually at the airport before any staff were.
Once we'd checked in for our flight and been subjected to the most scrupulous hand luggage search imaginable (flicking through every page of my diary, opening my tube of air-bed glue and checking to see if my glasses case had a false bottom is surely a tad over zealous in anyone's book) we sat in the departure lounge and awaited the arrival of our plane from Managua.
At about 0730 we heard the now familiar pitter patter of globulous rain drops on a corrugated iron roof and listened as a tropical storm homed in on the island and unleashed its fury upon us.
For all the rain we've encountered over the past month this was the real deal. A deafening rattle from above as though skip loads of marbles were being emptied out on the roof, rivers of water cascading over the inadequate guttering, fork lightning penetrating the recently descended gloom outside and claps of thunder loud enough to burst eardrums.
If you know your Carry On films it was reminiscent of the weather which greeted Dr Nookey at Gladstone Screwer's tropical practise in Carry On Again Doctor.
A few minutes later all power was lost so we were plunged into near darkness and with the runway already resembling a lake our prospects of flying seemed to be diminishing. A slight air of desperation enveloped us; we had to leave, spending any more time here would do our crust.
Two whole hours passed with no let up in the weather. The power intermittently came and went but we began to expect to be told "no flight today" rather than dread it.
Then the gloom lifted for about 10 minutes, after which the silence was broken by a small plane coming in to land. In fact, it was a very small plane, probably a 20-seater, no way big enough for the 40-odd people waiting with us.
It wasn't our plane as it turned out, it was only going to Bluefields about 45 miles away and a handful of passengers were called forward to board it.
As it taxied up the runway the storm returned with a vengeance and as it took off a terrific flash of lightning directly overhead and incredibly loud clap of thunder saw every one of us still in the departure lounge thanking our lucky stars we weren't aboard.
Another hour passed before our plane finally arrived and we were quickly ushered outside into the rain to board it.
We took off straight away, presumably to take advantage of the fact that it was now only pouring with rain and howling a gale rather than what we'd previously experienced.
I'm not the greatest flyer in the world if truth be known so to take to stormy skies in a piddling little 40-seater was not my idea of fun.
I always worry whether my pilot may have had a row with the wife or something but in addition to that concern we had the indecently quick turnaround and the weather to factor in.
Never mind; closed eyes, happy thoughts, buttocks clenched; that'll see me through, as ever.
Half way through I was wondering what all the fuss was about, it was as smooth a flight as I've had with the reassuring drone of the propellers right outside our window.
Then, just as the hostess was administering sweet bread to us the plane dipped alarmingly, inducing screams from the rear of the plane.
It wasn't that bad in hindsight but the tail end of Isaac we'd been exposed to earlier had probably given everyone the willies.
Once we'd reclaimed our baggage we took a taxi all the way to Granada, some 30 miles away.
This isn't the extravagance it first seems. The ride cost £20 and was door to door in less than an hour. When considered against: taxi into town, chicken bus to Granada bus station and then more case wheeling through cobbled streets it was money well spent.
Overtaking horses and carts, chicken buses, tractors and cyclists travelling towards us in our lane, we sped to our chosen hotel at a rate of knots. Even in the back of a relatively well-maintained car did my backside cane, suggesting that Guatemalan and particularly El Salvadorean chicken buses have wreaked permanent damage.
Drizzle greeted us, as did building works at the "Casa Sacuanjoche" meaning it was closed. Cue seething, cries of "typical" and a hunt for some adequate digs to sate my fair travelling companion.
As luck would have it the gentleman next door had rooms for rent so we went inside to have a gander.
Focusing solely on getting out of the rain and settled I was oblivious to our prospective hosts slightly creepy demeanour. I had of course noticed his friend asleep in a chair wearing nothing but underpants and a vest as we'd walked through the parlour but it's humid here, why be encumbered by clothes in your mates house if he's happy for you to pass out in your grots before him?
The room was a little dingy but the bed was comfortable and the 50's furniture seemed to lend an authentic Nicaraguan air to it.
Yes, this would do nicely.
I was absolutely busting for the loo, the day's events thus far preventing me from adhering to my usual timetable of ablutions, so before I'd even taken my small rucksack off my back I was waving goodbye to last nights beautiful meal via the tradesman's.
As I did so Kerry began vocalising a list of problems: no mosquito netting, air bricks with holes big enough for tarantulas to get in, a mosquito net above the bed which is so situated that you cannot have the fan on at night, the owner reminded her of Norman Bates, there were huge spider webs on the ceilings.
That last point was enough for me but what really sealed it was the fact that the loo wouldn't flush.
I went to see about getting our money back, armed with the Spanish for "musty, cobweb infested hell-hole and the wife ain't happy" but before I could get beyond "we cannot stay here señor" he was waving my $20 note in my direction with a look of resignation on his face.
I felt slightly guilty at leaving my calling card in the toilet but consoled myself that it was at least a 'firm' day.
Brimming with confidence on account of our rejecting the Bates Motel we turned down several rooms before happening across an absolute diamond.
The room was right on the main square overlooking the cathedral and was a grand affair, formerly part of a colonial building used by dignitaries and other nobs. Its high ceilings, heavy wooden doors and balcony overlooking the square were great features, as was the fact that breakfast was included courtesy of our Dutch host and his Nicaraguan wife.
Finally settled, we ate lunch before having a little look at the town in the area immediately around the square.
Granada was once the capital of Nicaragua, inaugurated by the Spaniards and an important city for its location on Lake Managua which has a route to the Caribbean and therefore Europe.
It has the classic grid pattern of streets, the central plaza and the smattering of churches that you come to expect, along with the cobbles, high humidity and broken pavements that also feature prominently over here.
Being shattered from our early rise we left most of the city until the following day, though we did enjoy our cheapest meal here that first night, £1.70 for an 'all-you-can-eat' buffet.
After our complimentary breakfast of fried bananas, scrambled eggs, rice & beans and a slab of fried cheese we set off towards a nearby church where we could climb the bell tower to get a great view of the whole city.
Over the course of the next few hours we visited several more churches, the old railway station, the ruin of an old hospital and spent a glorious hour in a chocolate museum consuming as much as our consciences would allow.
(Me a lot, Kerry not much).
Granada really is a beautiful, if slightly faded, old town and is the biggest draw from a tourism perspective in the whole country. It's people are so friendly and it was lovely to be somewhere with a bit of life after our week travelling to and on the Corn Islands.
But, as is our wont, we were off again on Saturday morning, heading to the Isla de Ometepe, an island formed way back when, by two volcanoes emerging from Lake Nicaragua.
We took a taxi to the bus 'station', during which our driver was trying to tell us something which we just couldn't grasp. In the end he gave up and just deposited us where we'd asked to be dropped, whereupon we discovered we were in the wrong place for the bus we wanted.
Why our taxi driver couldn't have made this plain to us using words we know I'm uncertain.
A dreadful failing on his part!
We took another cab to a market on the south side of town but as we got out a slightly crazed individual was rattling something else unintelligible at us. My tolerance of our inability to understand what's going on is wearing rather thin but we eventually grasped the fact that he was trying to tell us our bus had just left and the next one wasn't for two hours.
In a scene worthy of a tacky Hollywood movie we set off in pursuit, weaving through traffic and cutting up cyclists, horses and carts and an errant cow which was wandering down the road before we caught the bus and drove in front of it to force it to stop and let us on.
An hour later we were invited to leave the bus, another example of being oiked out in the middle of nowhere without the foggiest idea what's going on.
A lone taxi was available so we exercised our one and only option for the 3 mile journey to San Jorge, the port for Ometepe, enjoying a chat with the amiable young driver on the way.
My opinion of him changed when we reached our destination and he asked for $10 for the ride which, according to the guidebook, should cost 30p each.
I gave him £2, the smallest note we had and told him to be grateful.
The ferry chugged across Lake Nicaragua at walking pace which did give us the opportunity to chat at length with a group of Christian missionaries who were coming here for a month to work with children. When we arrived we faced the usual gamut of people wanting a slice of the gringo pie but we ignored all of them with a cheery smile and made for the 'American Hotel' on account of its large rooms, hot water and advert outside for home-made chocolate cake.
The island was described as a "must see" but though it was interesting it wouldn't go down as a highlight of the trip for either of us.
On Saturday afternoon we cycled to the fabled "Punta de Jesus Maria", a spit of sand extending out into the lake for the best swimming on the Isla.
Once our creaking heaps had carried us the five miles there (it's only three but we missed the turning) we found a turgid and miserable place with dirty looking black sand, litter everywhere and water that looked about as inviting to swim in as a sewage farm.
Underwhelmed, we cycled back and went out to eat a huge and almost raw steak that evening, our Argentinian host patently trying to get one over on the English for the sinking of the Belgrano by seriously undercooking our meat.
The power cut we experienced mid-meal did at least deny us the sight of blood spurting out of our food with each incision.
The next day was fun as we hired a moped to explore the island properly, an exercise in pig, cow and horse evasion as they're roaming all over the oche here.
First up was a nature walk at a place called Charco Verde where we saw ants the size of kidney beans and more lizards than you could shake a stick at.
After that we went to "Ojo de Agua", a pool with supposed healing properties which is filled by water generated by one of the volcanoes.
Whether this was true mattered not, the cool water was just what we needed by way of relief from the heat of the day and it was a glorious couple of hours spent in the tranquil surroundings here.
We ate here too, sitting at a table under a thatched roof to consume our repast. We both felt a little itch during the meal but nothing really to suggest that two days later we would be covered in red welts all over our torsos. The gnats must have thought it was Christmas, two juicy and near-naked whiteys to get their teeth into.
Fascinating as the island was it had little else to hold our attention for much longer, unless we wanted to climb another volcano, so we decided to get back to the mainland and be in position for the next days leg, to Costa Rica.
As we sailed away the mist cleared and we had spectacular views of the two peaks which form the island.
Almost as arresting was a young German guy on the boat covered from head to toe in tattoos.
Quite what he himself will think of his calf bearing the slogan "All hippies must die" in later life is debatable but probably similar to prospective employers opinion of his inked knuckles.
We spent Sunday night in Rivas, a rather uninspiring town chosen for its location on the Pan-American highway and therefore a direct bus next day to Costa Rica.
Our final night in Nicaragua was spent in a hospedaje, rooms in a family home, and typically friendly the family we stayed with were too.
Our final meal in Nicaragua was memorable both for its tastiness and for the fact that when trying to feed a sorrowful mutt, Kerry threw some chicken which hit a fellow diner in the kidneys.
The time we spent in Nicaragua was really enjoyable, helped in the greater part by the friendliness of the people.
They've been diddled, pillaged, had poultry thrown at them and ridden roughshod over since time immemorial yet they maintain a warmth that, for example, the Mexicans can only dream of.
If you're a fan of cheap living, fried cheese and corrugated iron then you should give it a whirl.
The time we spent in Nicaragua was really enjoyable, helped in the greater part by the friendliness of the people.
They've been diddled, pillaged, had poultry thrown at them and ridden roughshod over since time immemorial yet they maintain a warmth that, for example, the Mexicans can only dream of.
If you're a fan of cheap living, fried cheese and corrugated iron then you should give it a whirl.
I hope you weren't adversely affected by the 7.6 magnitude earthquake which has hit NW Costa Rica?
ReplyDeleteNo Bobbysox, not yet. We were en route to San Jose when it struck so were within 100 miles of it.
ReplyDeleteWhether it affects our plans over the next day or so remains to be seen though.