Wild Woman Wandering

After my running around the previous two days exhausting options to leave this little port town, I decided to have a chill day, catching up on emails and getting some washing done. As I was having my morning coffee, the first foreigners I had seen in town walked in. They were a young French couple who had flown in from Managua the night before. The girl was revisiting her childhood as her family moved here immediately after the Revolution in the early 1980s to help rebuild infrastructure. I was filled with admiration for her mother who must have been a strong woman to bring three young children to such a remote spot where tensions would still take a while to simmer down.

A quiet afternoon was spent readying to hit the road running in the morning. I only had a week and a half left of my trip and a lot of ground I wanted to cover. Sunset cervezas and dinner at my favourite cliff top restaurant and thus ended my final day in Puerto Cabezas.

I knew the airport had a flight leaving from it at 12 pm so aimed to be there a couple of hours beforehand in case it was only manned during flight times. The señora I spoke to there confirmed there were no available seats to Bluefields until Wednesday which wasn’t really a viable option for me. I spoke to an English speaking señor who gave me the option of flying to Managua on the Monday and then taking a flight to Bluefields from there. I wasn’t really keen on backtracking to Managua so decided to go back to the hotel and investigate further on the computer and possibly book the Managua-Bluefields option.

I checked again there were no available seats to Bluefields, then looked at the Managua-Bluefields option. I could fly out on the Monday but there were no connecting flights to Bluefields! I decided to walk back down to the airport and check with my friendly English speaking señor who had told me there were. After waiting for everyone to return from lunch, my señor confirmed what my computer had been trying to tell me. I could fly to Managua on Monday, but couldn’t get a connecting flight until Tuesday. Or fly direct on Wednesday. As I had been in Puerto Cabezas since Thursday afternoon and was running out of time to see the rest of the country, neither of those options were really particularly attractive.

I had exhausted all options for boating it down, waiting for available flights was going to take too long, so the only other option was to return the way I came. Two long, hard days vía local bus. I thought maybe I could travel part of the way and connect with other buses heading south, so traipsed to the bus terminal on the western side of town. There I met a lovely señora who very helpful but the facts were the facts. I would need to backtrack almost to where I had started. 17 hours on an overnight bus that left at 4 pm. I glanced at the 4 pm bus that was leaving the terminal, packed to the rafters inside and out and had a good, hard think about it. I know me. And the version of me that would have emerged after a such a trip would not have been one even I would have wanted to meet! Let alone the fine folk of Nicaragua.

I decided the best option after all would be to fly to Managua on the Monday and bus it back to the Carribben. At least I would be travelling through countryside I hadn’t already been through and the roads were good so trips were relatively quick by comparison. Decision made and I walked back to my hotel to make the booking so I at least I had a plan of action locked down. Flight booked and paid for and I could now relax.

As it was late in the day, I decided to have a couple of sunset cervezas to celebrate the fact that I had finally made a decision about how to leave this little port town. I walked down to the Malecon complex I had visited the previous day only to find it packed and the music blaring. Not quite the quiet place of solitude I was hankering for… On the way back to the hotel it started to drizzle. Fortunately, I made it back before the heavens opened up and the winds picked up. It was a lovely cool change though and I enjoyed listening to the pattering on the tin roof as I drifted off to sleep.

Morning dawned and I was keen to check out this cool little Caribbean town, as well as work out how I was going to continue down the coastline. After breakfasting in the casa’s beautiful garden cafe, I headed towards the coast to start my wander. The road which eventually led to the coast wound around a low cliff line where several little casas had superb uninterrupted views of the Caribbean Sea. In the distance, one could see a group of hombres hauling on a rope to pull a small fishing vessel back to the beach. A señora passed me with a large container on her head and smiles were exchanged.

I found a large restaurant on the edge of the cliff line which had steps going down to the beach and availed myself of the opportunity. Once down, I could see large flocks of pelicans, cormorants and vultures flooding the area. It didn’t take long to realise why – a fishing boat had pulled up on the beach and was offloading its catch. The birds were obviously looking for an easy feed. I continued on past little rocky headlands and a tiny stream which wound its way from the fringe of the lush vegetation to join the tide. A group of young boys were playing soccer with a battered ball and driftwood wedged into the damp sand to delineate goal posts. A couple of señoras were collecting shiny pebbles and placing them in a large container.

I reached the Puerto’s pier which has a rather chequered history. It was originally built early last century by US giant United Fruit in order to ship out all the fruit, fish and timber it had stripped out of the region. It was then used to launch the failed 1961 US supported Bay of Pigs invasion of Cuba by exiled Cubans. A couple of decades later and the pier came in handy again to smuggle in arms for both sides of the Revolution. It is reported that the shady ladies of the night were responsible for ensuring the FSLN received their armaments. I’m sure the Good Lord overlooked the soiled señoritas’ loose morals for their brave contributions to the winning side.

On the other side of the pier, I noticed a tiny bar nestled on the edge of the beach. This looked like a fine place to stop for a cerveza and stop and smell the sea for a short while. Suitably refreshed, I thought it time to head out to Lamlaya where it said in the guidebook I would be able to catch a panga (collectivo boat) to get as far down the coast as Haulover. There was no mention of anything any further but I was hoping to be able to hop down the coast via a series of pangas servicing the communities down there. As it was a fair way out of town, I decided to catch a colectivo there.

The taxi pulled up at a tiny port which contained two fishing boats. One boat had several hombres out front on its bow who were calling out to me in a rather raucous manner. I decided to head to the other boat and asked the more demure crew about pangas down the coast. When they learned that I wanted to get down to Bluefields, they told me there was a boat that left Puerto Cabezas every afternoon for Bluefields. I thanked them, waved adiós to the raucous crew then starting walking back down the main road until such time as another taxi passed which was going back to Puerto Cabezas.

It was at this point that I realised that I had left my hat in the taxi I caught out here. With the sun beating down relentlessly, I continued walking hoping that it wasn’t long before a taxi would pick me up. Eventually a clapped out car picked me up and I immediately wished it hadn’t. Fuel fumes wafted through the interior and stung my eyes. There was nothing I could do but ride it out and hope it didn’t take too long to get back. I got dropped off in the middle of town and decided to stick to the main road to the pier in the vain hope that perhaps the taxi I had left my hat in might drive past and see me. After all it wasn’t a big town. Lo and behold, I had only been walking about 10 mins when my previous taxi driver roared to a halt next to me; my hat on his dash and a huge grin on his face. Happy days!

Back down at the pier I enquired about the alleged boat to Bluefields. The hombre at the pier told me there wasn’t a boat anymore, only cargo ships. I asked if the cargo ships took paying passengers. Of course! But the last one left yesterday and the next isn’t due until the end of the month. My dreams of zipping down the coast by boat were slowly slipping away. Are there any pangas going to communities down the coast? No. What about that one? It’s gong down the river. One hombre took pity on me and rang an amigo who might be able to help me.

Nelson was a retired container ship captain who had spent years at sea all around the world. He now lives in a modest wooden bungalow on the beach and owns four pangas which he rents out. We sat on a couple of hammocks under his house and discussed the possibility of chartering a panga to go down to Bluefields. I knew it was way out of my budget, but he had been summoned so thought I should at least enquire. ‘Business’ is not a speedy issue and a significant amount of fat needed to be chewed before getting a definitive answer. As I expected, it was way beyond what I was prepared to pay due to the distance and fuel costs, so politely declined and thanked him for his time.

I since found out that though the government has been promising regular panga services to these remote coastal communities, they are slow to be implemented. I was surprised as even La Mosquitia in Honduras has regular (albeit daily) services and that is in the must remote part of Central America! Still, at least I had thoroughly exhausted all possible options to venture on by boat, so turned my attention to flying. Yes, there are flights from Puerto Cabezas to Bluefields. The next one is on Wednesday. In five days time! As the day was late and I couldn’t do anything more, I decided to wait until morning when I could go down to the airport and better investigate options.

I wandered down to the restaurant on the sea cliff to enjoy a couple of sunset cervezas and dinner. At least if I was stuck here for a few days, it was a lovely spot to be stuck in. A sumptuous meal of lobster cocktail certainly sealed that deal. On the way home, the street lights went out so I pulled out my phone to use the torch so as to avoid the many obstacles in and on the road. A couple of boys were walking just behind me and caught up to take advantage of my beam. We walked companionably to the end of the road where they thanked me and turned off. I continued on and the lights reemerged just as I got back to my hotel.

Rudely awakened at 4 am, I quickly got myself organised and was out the door within 10 mins. Tripped over a small step I didn’t see and and landed smack bang on to my bad knee. Fully laden with pack. Curses were uttered which woke the young girl up who was sleeping on a mattress near the front gate. She asked what happened and looked at my grazed knee sympathetically. I must admit I was more concerned about getting out and catching my bus, so as soon as the gate was opened quickly hobbled over to the bus terminal.

My ‘wheels’ for the next 12 hours was already waiting and slowly filling up, but I managed to get a seat behind the driver where I would get a good view of the countryside. Shortly after 4.30 am, the bus slowly, but surely pulled out of the terminal and drove along the dirt road which was the middle of town. I could see very quickly why there was nowhere to eat the previous night as the pueblo was so tiny there was very little there apart from the occasional little tienda. The bus maneuvered around the numerous potholes and ruts and continued on out of town.

The early morning chill set in and I pulled my sarong out of my pack to wrap around my shoulders. As the dawn slowly gathered strength, the countryside began to reveal itself in the form of low hills with tiny casas dotted within its folds. Lights were emanating in the gloom and the smell of freshly cooked tortillas pervaded. Life was stirring in this remote little part of Nicaragua. I snuggled into my sarong shawl and tried to remain awake, but the early start combined with the gentle rocking motion of the bus as it slowly negotiated the poor road made this impossible I found myself nodding off.

I was startled out of my slumber by a jerking motion of the bus which nearly saw me deposited into the aisle. The señora next to me put her hand out to prevent me falling, but I awoke in time. This time for good! After a few hours of travel, the bus pulled over for a service stop. There was a little comedor where one could purchase a meal and baños out the back. It was good to stretch the legs for a short time before hopping back on board again. The little pit stop reminded me of roadhouses in remote parts of Australia – basic, but does the trick. And an array of different vehicles all stopped for the same purpose. In the middle of nowhere.

It was another few hours before we got to the tiny pueblo of Rosita. Rosita, Siuna and Bonanza (yes, there truly is a pueblo by this name…) form the mining triangle of Nicaragua. Early last century, immigrants from North America, Europe and China descended upon Las Minas to seek their fortune in the form of gold. Whilst some found their ‘El Dorado’ here in the picturesque hills, most left empty handed as is the case in most gold rushes. Those that made their way down to the emerging coffee plantations found a more sustainable fortune in the form of the little red cherries grown on the coffee bushes.

Another few hours on the road, we stopped again for a pit stop. This time there were two drop baños on the side of the road and a small tienda on the other side. The señoras queued for the baños whilst the señores got off lightly by relieving themselves on the roadside. Whilst waiting to continue the journey, I watched a señora cart buckets of water she drew from the stream at the back of her tiny wood slab casa. The usual assortment of farm animals were within the immediate vicinity of the casa and ambled unrestrained around its perimeter. It was as far away from the hustle and bustle of the bigger towns and cities as one could get.

Back on the road for the last sector of our long trip and the end was nigh. I had been watching the three bus attendants with interest. This hard working trio were typical of bus attendants I had encountered throughout the country. Able to scramble up the steel ladder to the top of the bus like a troop of monkeys, run alongside the bus and jump back on as the bus gathered speed, port and load luggage with grace and good humour, and assist those passengers who needed it. I saw babies being carried for their mothers, young children helped up and down the stairs and the most beautiful of all – two attendants gently and patiently helping a frail señora through and off the bus as if she was the most precious of cargo.

After a while the countryside began to change as we climbed down from the hills and came closer to the Caribbean coast. Gone were the eerie cloud forests and lush jungle, and a wide, flat savannah dotted with palm trees took its place. The tiny casas changed as well to more of the Caribbean style; on stilts to contend with the regular wet season flooding that the region experiences. We began crossing large, sleepy rivers meandering ever onward to the coast and had to stop at one for a barge crossing. I was surprised that everyone got off the bus for the crossing, but it soon became apparent why. On one entire side of the barge, were end-to-end tiendas selling a variety of food and drink. Once over the river, everyone walked off the barge and jumped back on the bus to continue on.

11 and a half hours after leaving tiny Siuna, we finally reached Puerto Cabezas. As always when doing a long trip with the same bus, I felt a kind of attachment to it and the crew. I gathered my pack, bid my adiós and checked maps.me for how to get to the hotel I had chosen out of the guidebook. It was about 3 km away but I was hoping the walk would help with the swelling in my knees. Puerto Cabezas is a typical Caribbean port town with just the right mix of skank and sketch stirred into this spicy soup of humankind. Clapboard shacks of various faded hues lined the gravel road and children and dogs played in their compacted dirt yards.

Casa Museo Judith Kain had a lovely room within my budget and I gratefully took it. This little set up was the former home of prominent local artist, Judith Kain. It has since been turned into a museum featuring some beautiful antiques and many works from the late artist. Accomodation has been created in the upstairs rooms of the large casa and also in two adjoining casas. All set within pretty gardens and attractive sitting spaces. It was just the thing after my two long days of travel!

I spent what remained of the afternoon washing, then walked to try find somewhere for dinner. A lovely little upper story restaurant with views to the pier grabbed my attention and I hobbled up the steep steps. I decided upon the fish soup in coconut milk and was not disappointed. Just the thing to welcome me to the Caribbean and I looked forward to sampling this delicious local dish again whilst here.

After a tasty breakfast and good coffee at the hostel, I tramped back up the hill to begin my long overland trip to the Caribbean coast. I knew I had to catch a bus to Rio Blanco and from there, another to Siuna where I planned to spend the night and continue the last 12 hour leg the following day. I managed to get a half decent seat and sat back to enjoy the beautiful countryside roll past for the next four hours.

In Rio Blanco, the bus pulled up at a small, squalid terminal which in no way reflected the beauty of its setting. The only other bus at the terminal had Siuna painted on its front and I confirmed that was its destination before hopping on. I misunderstood when the bus was leaving so had sat for some time in my cramped seat before realising we weren’t leaving anytime soon. I did the Central American seat reservation with my jacket and water bottle and jumped off to straighten my legs while I still could.

Eventually it was time for the bus to pull out and about half an hour down the road I was informed that this particular bus wasn’t going to Siuna, but to Mulukuku. Despite me checking in Rio Blanco! I seems that if a bus is heading in the general direction you want to go, you get on and jump off to connect to another bus. And that, good folks, is why it takes forever sometimes to travel places on local transport. There wasn’t much else to do but sit back and enjoy the passing countryside until I had to get off.

We pulled into a small pueblo and this evidently was where I needed to get off. My next bus to Siuna was patiently waiting on the side of the road on a most intangible angle for getting on, fully laden with pack. I found out I needed to wait another hour before it left so went to seek out a baño. My queries left the locals in the tiny roadside tiendas bemused and eventually led me to an old señora who agreed to let me use her loo. I followed her across the small wooden planked room to a door where beyond lay a steep set of stairs leading to a small backyard. The señora told me to go down the steps and the baño was at the back of the yard. I carefully stepped past pigs snuffling in the thick mud and ducked under a washing line, laden with damp clothes to find the tiny drop baño atop a wooden ledge. No door was available to offer any privacy, but one couldn’t be choosy under such circumstances. I did what I came to do, then pushed away the fat pink pig who came up to investigate. Ducking back under the washing line and managing to avoid the worst of the mud and getting eaten by pigs, I returned to the street relieved. I gave the señora some Córdoba for her kindness and continued my wait.

It was eventually time to leave this quaint little pueblo and continue on the next leg of my journey. As we drove deeper into the Cordillera Isabelia the vistas from the bus window were reward enough for the long journey. This is one of the most remote parts of Nicaragua and poverty and subsistence is a way of life for many of the people who live here. The condition of the road reflected the lack of infrastructure developed in the region and it was a slow journey to Siuna.

It was dark by the time we eventually arrived at my day one destination and I made enquiries as to my final long leg the next day. I approached a trio of señores at a small wooden counter and asked about the bus to Puerto Cabezas. They were not very receptive to assisting me and I had to wait patiently while they had their conversation to continue with my query. It turned out that the bus I needed left at 4.30 am so it would be a very early start in the morning. I enquired about nearby hotels and was told there was one out the front of the bus terminal.

I walked out and over the road and found the little hotel. The first room they showed me was a 2 x 3 m cell with no fan for USD6.50. It was a hotbox so they took me to another which was USD10 but had a fan and a bathroom of sorts. There was no restaurant attached the hotel, nor was there anywhere to eat in the little pueblo. I got some water for the following day, had a wash in the metre high tap in the bathroom and had an early night ready for my 4 am start in the morning.

I had breakfast at my hotel and was pleasantly surprised to find it was ‘on the house’. A walk to the bus terminal I needed saw me land at one of the fanciest in the country. I had time for coffee before I left, them hopped on the bus to Matagalpa. The route between the two towns was spectacular as it ran in between three different reserves which had tiny pueblos nestled on the fringes. As this was coffee country, tiny coffee plantations clung to the side of the hills in varying stages of cultivation. All overshadowed by magnificent cloud forest stretching out for miles.

The bus pulled into the southern bus terminal and I took the opportunity to get information about my planned overland trip to Puerto Cabezas the following day. This trip is not talked up in any way in the guidebook which is probably why hardly anyone takes it, but I was determined. I knew I could catch a bus to remote Siuna and from there another to Puerto Cabezas but needed to check the details. I eventually found a señora who was able to help me out and wrote down some information for me including the name of the terminal I needed to catch the bus from.

I then walked up the hill following the river to the Parque Central from which my chosen hostel was close to. Martina’s Place was an excellent choice – clean, comfy and free breakfast included in the price. I dumped my pack, then walked up to the terminal I needed to go to the following morning to check the information I had been given at the other terminal. A lovely señor at the information office was extremely helpful and I felt confident I would be able to get all the way to Puerto Cabezas as planned in two days.

I had time to visit the Museo de Cafe, so headed to the part of town it was located in. This little museum outlined the steps involved in coffee growing and processing and provided a very interesting history of the town from right back to its indigenous inhabitants to when the first German family arrived in the late 1800s and decided to plant coffee. Other German families followed suit and Matagalpa’s coffee industry was born. It wasn’t easy for these early pioneers though as they originally sent the coffee cherries back to Germany for further processing which resulted a much spoiling on the voyage. Eventually, one of the migrants invented a machine to dehusk the cherries and things went swimmingly thereafter. Matagalpa is now one of Nicaragua’s major coffee producing regions.

It wouldn’t be Nicaragua without some political message proudly inherent in the display and this little Museo had a big one. After the coffee crisis of 1999, many plantations went under and tens of thousands of workers lost their jobs. This led to a widespread diaspora from the region to the bigger cities and many former farmers and their families starved to death. Eventually, the workers formed a union and set up a road block on the Pan America Hwy in protest demanding food, work, education, health and land. The government at the time (not the FSLN) did little to alleviate the problem, however, a truce was eventually made after three years. According to the signage at the Museo, it wasn’t until the FSLN came back into power that thing really started to rectify themselves. A more believable message though, was that the coffee growers are only getting a tiny portion of the income produced by their crops, with global giants such as Nestle taking the giant share.

Armed with my new found determination to buy only free trade coffee when I return home, I continued wandering around town. Matagalpa was where Carlos Fonseca, martyred FSLN commander, was born and his presence is felt throughout the town. A bronze statue depicting his image is proudly and prominently erected in Parque Central and the facing Police Department building bears his name. When one learns that he grew up impoverished in a tiny shack with his mother and four siblings, it is little wonder that his political leanings tended towards revolutionising the people towards a socialist state. I still wonder, however, what he would have thought about the way things have turned out for his country with a significant percentage of the population still desperately poor.

Back at the hostel, I got chatting to a Dutch girl who had spent the previous few months doing an internship in Granada as part of her nursing degree. She was telling me that polio is still prevalent in Nicaragua, although the vaccine is available here. She told me about a 22 year old patient she had who could only move her eyelids and who would eventually die. Of course, no money has gone into developing more effective polio treatments since the vaccine proved so effective 50 years ago, so contracting the disease often remains a death sentence. Her insight into the Nicaraguan health system did not surprise me, but certainly made me grateful to be living in a developed country with access to quality medical care. We ended up going out to dinner together and had a lovely evening swapping stories. I find I always meet interesting people on the road. That’s one of the great benefits of travelling.

The wind picked up during the night and the loose fitting metal door rattled loudly in its frame. I was able to solve the problem by laying my backpack along the edge of the door, thus stopping the wind from blasting in as well as silencing the door. Morning dawned and I got my first glimpses of this pretty town in daylight. One could see spectacular mountains from the balcony outside my first floor room with clouds creeping over the tops. I had planned on climbing to the top of one of these mountains to a lookout, but first needed breakfast.

I decided to check out a much touted bakery in the guide book for breakfast and fuelled up with great coffee and a couple of pastries. It looked a popular spot for locals as well as the place started filling up not long after I got there. Thus fortified, I was ready for my hill climb. Cerró La Cruz is the town’s cross which is firmly perched on a rocky ridge high above town. It was placed there in 1703 by Franciscan Fray Margil de Jesus. The effort it would have taken to trudge a kilometre up the steep terrain with a supersized cross made this effort pale well beyond ‘something to do one sunny Sunday’ and more in the ‘paying penance for some heinous deed’ category. Although it might have just been that the fine Fray had a mighty big point to make about his devotion to the good Lord.

The path up to La Cruz was through the town cemetery which was a colourful affair of graves and mausoleums nestled into the base of the hillside. After climbing a steep path, one entered the reserve and a series of concrete steps continued zig zagging up to the top of the ridge. The cloud forest was truly spectacular and a riot of flowering plants in its midst enhanced the splendour. One lost sight of the cross as soon as one started on the steps, so it was difficult to gauge how much further one had to go as the thick forest obstructed vision to the top of the ridge. You could only just keep climbing ever upwards and know at some stage you would eventually get there.

On top of the ridge, a dirt track led to the top of the peak to La Cruz. A brightly coloured observation pavilion was in prime position for 360 degree views and another short climb led to the cross itself, firmly planted in a pile of large boulders and facing the town far below. The views were magnificent; not only over the whole of Jinotega but of the hinterlands and Lago de Apanas in the distance. After enjoying the vista, I headed back down the hill and back through the cemetery.

I wanted to go out to visit one of the communities in Lago de Apanas I had read about in the guide book, so headed to the bus terminal. I was directed to a bus which supposedly would take me to Sisle, however, on chatting to a señor standing next to me I found out I would need to get off at a crossroad and wait for a connecting bus. This I managed, but it ended up being later than I was planning on getting to the area. I got dropped off at the top of a dirt road down to Sisle Malecón, but found it deserted and the few shacks there shut. So much for my fresh fish meal I had been looking forward to!

I walked back up the hill to the little tienda on the corner to make enquires about the next bus heading back to Jinotega. There was a highly inebriated señor who greeted me when I stepped onto the porch and tried to embrace me with an unpleasant fervour. Whilst trying to sidestep and push him away, I was able to find out from the senor in the tienda that the next bus would be along in about 15 mins. I asked to use their facilities which ended up being a drop toilet perched up on a ledge.

Skipping past the usual menagerie of pigs, dogs, cats, chooks and a horse, I encountered my sodden señor again. He declared he quite liked me and was very persistent in his advances. I moved over to a small clearing next to the tienda to try avoid him and encountered another crazy. This one was muttering and shouting about something I think only he was aware of. I decided to move to the other side of the road to avoid them both, but my sodden señor followed and decided he was coming with me to Jinotega. I was silently wishing there was some sort of entity which would make this damn bus appear and get me the hell out of there. On cue, my salvation in the form of a giant lumbering yellow bus came rumbling up the hill. I thought that sorted the issue out, but sodden señor kept following declaring his undying adoration. It was at this point I told him I was married and had a husband back home. In cases like this, it is always handy to have an imaginary hubby in your back pocket you can use to throw at unwanted attention.

Safely ensconced on my bus, I could finally see the scenery I had missed coming out here due to having to stand the whole way on both buses. It was very pretty country and I was glad I had the opportunity to see it. Back in Jinotega, we were dropped at the same spot as the night before so I knew where I was going. It was a very full day, so dinner and bed were high up on the agenda as I was leaving early the following day.

Time to farewell beautiful Estelí and head further afield. I needed to leave my hostel at 8.30 am which was before my corner cafe opened on a Sunday so missed out on one last magnificent breakfast. I had marked on maps.me where the murals were I wanted to take photos of so zig zagged through the streets on my way to the bus terminal. Once there, I found out my inattentive señor from the previous night had given me a bum steer and the bus I was planning on catching wasn’t running so had to wait another three hours for the next one. As I had nowhere to practically leave my pack, I decided to hole up in one of the little comedors and wait it out.

Eventually my bus pulled up and I got a good seat. Of course, a ‘good’ seat in my eyes is based purely on being able to get a relatively decent view of the countryside. In no other way could any of these seats be considered ‘good’ by Western standards, but I was grateful to have somewhere to put my feet as an added bonus. The ability to get a decent view was key to me taking this bus as it went smack through the middle of Área Protegida Miraflor which I was keen to experience, even if only from the window of a local bus. We headed out of town past the tobacco finca I had visited a couple of days ago, then the bus began its long, slow climb up into the mountains.

The condition of the dirt road left much to be desired, but the driver negotiated the worst of the obstacles, stopping on a fairly regular basis to pick up and drop off passengers. This slow pace of travel is wonderful to truly experience the way of life of the average rural Nicaraguan. Most of these people are too poor to own any form of motorised transport, so the lumbering bus is their only form of transport, aside from the occasional horse or bicycle.

Área Protegida Miraflor is an interesting conglomerate of community farming and nature reserve. Evidently during the Revolution, the subsistent farmers here rose up to resist the Contra soldiers who snuck over the Honduran border which helped the FSLN in its cause to no small degree. In return, when the FSLN took power, Daniel Ortega nationalised the area and gave it back to the people to organise into colectivos. Of recent times, several of the communities have organised homestays and guided tours through the region, though it still remains a largely undeveloped area.

There are three main climate zones one reaches travelling through this area. The ‘low zone’ is a tropical oak savanna, the ‘intermediate zone’ has some remnant cloud forest, and the ‘high zone’ is mostly cloud forest. One could see the changing landscape as we climbed ever higher into the mountains. Bromeliads, orchids and mosses draped over oak trees giving the landscape an eerie perspective. Colourful flowers began becoming more prolific and one could see buckets of many varieties of flowers for sale at roadside stalls.

Eventually, we pulled into the tiny pueblo of San Sebastián de Yali. This picturesque little town was completely surrounded by mountains and had nestled itself within a small high valley. I found out when the next bus I needed left and wandered off to find a comedor or bar where I could sit and recharge my phone. Clearly this was well off the beaten track as I received more than my fair share of stares by the locals. I crossed a small river at the edge of town and came across a well patronised bar full of hombres. As there didn’t seem to be much in the way of other options and I really needed to charge up my phone, I plonked myself down on a chair next to a power socket and ordered a cerveza. I definitely was a novelty in the bar as it didn’t seem it would be often a woman, let alone a gringa, stepped foot in here unless she was working behind the bar.

Once I had sufficient charge in my phone, I bid adieu to the couple of hombres who had struck up conversation with me and walked back to the bus terminal. My bus had already pulled in and of course, all the seats were taken! That is what one should have been doing rather than chugging cervezas with the hombres. I had another check of my guidebook and decided to continue on to Jinotega for the night. We passed through pretty San Raphael del Norte, with its impressive looking church, and continued on to the south western shores of Lago de Apanas. This is Nicaragua’s third largest lake and supports several fishing communities dotted around its shores.

It was dark by the time we pulled into Jinotega and I had no idea where we were as we were clearly not at a bus terminal. Those cheeky siesta cervezas had worked their way through and I was busting for a pee! A señor started harassing me about something but I couldn’t/didn’t want to understand what he was on about. I walked to the gas station on the corner and pleaded with the attendant to use their facilities, but to no avail. He did, however, direct me to a nearby pokie joint where I gate crashed the ladies bathroom. I’ve never been so happy to be in a house of gambling in my life!

Thus relieved, I checked out maps.me for where I was and where Parque Central was. All the hotels in the guidebook were a little on the pricey side so I went into one close to the centre of town and checked it out. USD12 for a single room with private bathroom suited me just fine. I went back downstairs and organised dinner and another blanket as the evening was turning quite chilly. Time to explore this pueblo in the morning.

As I decided not to do the Miraflor Reserve tour but had already paid for the night at my hostel, I had an extra day in Esteli in which to poke around as well as get some things done I needed to do. First off it was breakfast and coffee at my regular where I made enquiries about where to find a good hairdresser. There comes a point in one’s trip where one needs to address the issue of regrowth in one’s hair and throw a heap of chemicals at the problem. I used to really stress about getting my regrowth done in Central America, however, having had it done now four times in four different countries with good result, I am a bit more relaxed about it all. I get my hairdresser back home to write down the colour combination and formula and hand that to the local hairdresser.

The salon I was directed to was able to help out, however, had no water at that particular moment so suggested I come back in a couple of hours. Another job I needed doing was getting my travel sandals re-stitched as the canyon trip the previous day had not been kind to the job done on them in Leon. I found a shoe shine señor who also did running repairs and sat on his stool while he worked his magic on my sandals. As I sat, several other señors came by to have their shoes polished up. I was astounded at how these shoe shine señors could make the most scuffed shoe look amazing. My shoe shine señor asked if I wanted my sandals to undergo the same treatment and I readily agreed. After all they are leather and should come up nicely. As it was, they ended up looking almost as new and I pranced out of the Parque Central in my shiny sandals.

I still had some time to kill before I needed to return to the hairdresser so decided to check out the much touted Buffet Castillo which was closed first time I tried. This time, however, the place was humming and I waited in line with other locals. Food was served from large Bain Maries and one paid for it at the end of the counter, cafeteria style. I found a table and tucked into a most delicious meal. There is a reason that the locals crowd here at lunchtime and I was glad to have experienced it.

By this stage it was time to return to the hairdressing salon and see if the water had been restored. All being good, I handed over my little card and let the hairdresser work her magic. I was happy the water stayed on until it was needed for the rinse process or I wasn’t sure what was going to happen. I treated myself to a blow wave and swanned out of the salon with soft, silky locks (all the same colour) for only AUD32! Happy days.

I still had time to have a bit more of a poke around Esteli so headed straight for the 1823 Catedral. There outside, stood a young girl in a pink gown accompanied by her mother, grandmother and two young attendants also in pink. This was a quinceañera ready to enter the cathedral to be presented to society as a woman. This practice of girls celebrating their fifteenth birthdays in such a manner is common throughout Latin America and is similar to a debutante ‘coming out’. The girls are escorted down the aisle of the church by their mothers to a special mass which is followed by a celebratory reception afterwards. They are commonly quite grand affairs if the family can afford it.

One of the things Esteli is famous for is its street art in the form of murals around the city. My last job for the day involved checking the bus timetable for where I wanted to go the next morning, as I was heading into a more remote section of the country and fewer buses plied these routes. I chose a different route to the bus terminal to see what murals I could find en-route. As it was getting dark by this stage, I made a note of ones I liked so I could take a photo of them the following day. At the bus terminal, I found an hombre that worked there and made enquiries as to when the particular bus I was seeking left the terminal the following day. He was busy chatting up a local girl and paid scant attention to my query but confirmed the times in my guidebook were correct. Thus armed with the information I needed, I headed back to my hostel for my last night in Esteli.

In Esteli one gets the 6 am air aid siren as well as the midday one, and today I was up with it! I had been told I needed to get the 7.15 am bus from a terminal that was about a half hour walk from the hostel, so set off in plenty of time to make the bus. The walk didn’t take as long as anticipated so I had time for some coffee before hopping on the bus.

All the other travellers that were going on the canyon tour were also on this bus and it felt strange to be on a local bus and not the only gringa for a change. I managed to get a seat up front which only had leg room for the person on the aisle side. A couple of locals checked out the vacant spot next to me and decided they neither could nor wanted to try to squeeze into the space. Eventually, a señor came along and I found myself sliding over into the legless territory with my feet where his should be. I managed with alternating between putting my right foot up on the wheel arch at intervals to regain what little sensation I could under the circumstances.

The bus roared along a relatively good road and amazing vistas revealed themselves at every twist and turn of the winding road. We were climbing deeper into lush forested hills, punctuated by verdant valleys. Tiny pueblos dotted the landscape and subsistence farmers eked out their existence in pockets carved out of the forest. Despite the discomfort of my seat, the trip was most enjoyable. Though circulation in one’s legs is not to be underrated.

I struck up conversation with my bus bud who was intrigued with my being from Australia. He told me he had broken his clavicle in a motorbike accident, then proceeded to show me an array of photos on his phone of his work and home. I had bought some plantain strips from one of the many vendors plying the buses at certain stops and shared them with my new friend. We munched on our snacks companionably as I answered his many questions about Australia.

We eventually pulled up at Somoto terminal and I was relieved to be able to get circulation back in my legs. A tall hombre by the name of Henry met us at the terminal and assembled his tour participants like a patient mother hen gathering her chicks. We walked over to the awaiting duel cab ute and I climbed into the tray with five others. It was fabulous whirling through the countryside from my windswept post. We pulled up at Henry’s property and the guides got us ready with life jackets and ensuring we had everything we needed. I handed over my camera in its snoop pouch for our guide to carry on his dry bag.

It was then a three kilometre walk to the start of the canyon, at first along the road where we passed horses and mules quietly grazing in their fields or on the roadside. We then turned off onto a dirt track which climbed a hill to give superb views of the river below and then down to the river itself. Volcanic boulders were everywhere. The whole area was basalt of various levels of degradation with the Rio Coco meandering through it all. This is the longest river in Central America and runs all the way to the Caribbean. A three kilometre natural gorge has been carved out with walls that close in to ten metres at its narrowest. There is a 160 m fall over the extent of the gorge which made for an interesting but fairly easy traverse.

We rock hopped, waded and swam the extent of the canyon, stopping occasionally for photos. At the end of the canyon we were all piled into a small rowboat and taken about another 500 m downstream from where we had another three kilometre walk back to the start. We passed a tiny casa on the edge of the river and had to dodge cattle slumbering peacefully on the track and one very contented pig having an awesome time snuffling in the mud at the edge of the river.

A steep hill which resulted in a magnificent vista of the river led to a Reserve checkpoint where we had to register our visit. Then it was just a short walk back to where we started. After changing into dry clothes, we went down for a hearty meal of chicken, rice and salad. A very welcome repast indeed! Two of the girls were staying on overnight, so the rest of us organised a lift back to the bus terminal to catch the 3.15 pm bus to Esteli. The bus everyone was catching was an express which was a bit more expensive and a lot more comfortable with individual seats which in some stage of their life had reclining capacity. The time was also shaved by about an hour as well.

Back in Esteli, I messaged Susie and arranged to meet up with her and Ana for dinner. I was planning on doing another tour into Miraflor Reserve the following day but it ended up being too difficult so decided against it. We found a fritanga to eat at and had an amazing meal of fresh local food. All too soon it was time to bid my two new friends adios as they were leaving in the morning. I hope to meet up with them both when I travel to Costa Rica on my next trip.