K.B.log: Nicaragua: saying goodbye to old man 2015

We were expecting a lot more noise on New Year's Eve. But on our strip of Nicaraguan beach, it was our own party who had the most tonnage of fireworks. We had stocked up on an unregulated armory of explosives from the holiday vendors lining the north road out of the colonial town of León. We had roman candles firing 100 little fireballs, chunky mortars that exploded just a couple stories above our heads, and an assortment of rockets held together by twine and newspaper (I am exaggerating slightly). But in the end, it was probably the pretty, deadwood bonfire that best expressed the mellow vibe of our week along Las Peñitas beach.

Momotombo, on the shores of Xolotlán Lake.

Forget bottle rockets, Nicaragua's terrain has its own natural fireworks; during the our landing at Managua's airport, we saw several volcanos dotting the landscape like pyramids, wisps of smoke drifting from their points. Driving around the giant lake, or through the dry savannah of the province, the volcanoes were never far from view. Of course, coming from Jamaica, we expected things to be different, plus we were pleased to be traveling in an hispanic land again. What we did NOT expect, as we left Managua in our rental car, was to be flagged down at a policía checkpoint. We had made the mistake of giving them the excuse to stop us (crossing a solid white line in an effort to change lanes for the checkpoint), but Jennifer sweet-talked them and let slip our government credentials and teased and by the end, the comandante was laughing, shaking my hand and trying out his English on us. To be fair: it seems an orderly country, this traffic stop was less sketchy than experiences with police in Peru or the Dominican Republic or, even, Orange County.

The lady in León

The wide main roads are lined by modern reflectors and people drive safely. Which is not to say that there aren't 3rd world road hazards, I'm thinking of the 6yr olds darting across the lanes, the ubiquitous horse-drawn wagons, and the colorfully belching buses. But one of those horse wagons actually had a headlight, a metaphor for this country in transition. After a couple hours of hours outside of Managua, the highway disappeared into León, a confusing criss-cross of cobblestone streets. We would come to León several times over the week; it's a town that goes back to the days of the conquistadores, with several propped-up churches, low pastel buildings, and a mix of vendors, beggars, bank guards with shot guns, and middle-class folk going about their business. Being the week between Christmas and New Year, holiday sugar sculptures were sold by the main church, and we saw many life-size papier-mache sculptures of old men positioned around town, representing the year gone by. Several times we stumbled upon a traditional costume in which the figure of a gowned woman would be carried on the shoulders, making her appear double-tall while her dress hid the human below. The main plaza even had a 2-story high female figure that represented, I was told, the early Spaniards. In addition to all this colonial history, the town has a university and is considered a birthplace of the Sandinista revolution. Indeed, blue-white Nicaragua flags are joined with Sandinista flags, there are revolutionary murals, and highway posts are painted telltale black and red.

Anyway, we eventually rediscovered the route out of León (thanks Google maps!), and 20 minutes later we were welcomed by family at the beach house in Las Peñitas. This was to be a vacation with my Jennifer's brother and his family, the younger of his two daughters running around covered with nothing more than pampers, a necklace, and sand on her butt. With his wife, her true-California parents, and her naturalist brother, we all slipped easily into beach mode, la vida en la playa.

Las Peñitas is a strip of beach houses and hostels along a couple kilometers of sand that terminates at a mangrove estuary and fishing village. It's not an undiscovered place, there are at least as many low-budget travelers as locals working the shrimp farm or fishing, but it's still a tourist spot in its infancy and feels relatively real. The housekeeper prepared handmade tortillas, tostones (fried plantain), and whatever seafood we had. Several mornings, I went back onto the rough dirt roads to get fresh shrimp or mackerel or mystery fish from sellers whose total overhead seemed to consist of two Igloo coolers, a scale, and some ice. After learning what shrimp juice in the upholstery smells like, I would hang my purchases out the car window for the short drive back to the house. We were lucky to catch the once-per-week produce truck at our door and, once, a lady on a bike offered to sell us turtle eggs (legal this time of year). There were warm waves to bodysurf, a nice little pool and hammocks on the patio. We drank cold Toña beer or watermelon daiquiris and I sipped good Flor de Caña rum, playing cards or boardgames, pulling our chairs out to the water's edge every sunset.

Egrets and herons in the mangroves, with Andy,
brother-in-law of my brother-in-law.

One morning we hired a boat to take us into the mangrove swamp that's protected from the ocean by a long, sandy island. My boat went far enough that our guide had to hack our way through by machete, eventually bringing us out into a wide, open estuary alive with herons, egrets and ibis. The area is a nature preserve, but also supports about 30 families. We pulled over and went out to the oceanside sand, free of footprints, and took a look at a turtle nursery, with about 20 nests simple bagged up in burlap, and some hatchlings in a bucket, waiting to be set free at nightfall.

Turtle eggs and ceviche.

We also found our way to Chinandega, the next major town, for a Nicaraguan baseball league game between the Tigres de Chinandega and the Orientales. Most fans walked to the low, concrete stadium, so when before the fence to the dusty parking lot was even opened for us, several enterprising boys were vying for our business, running in front to show us the way, promising to watch our car. Inside, as the seats filled up, the noise level grew and grew. The kids in our group grinned, for once given license to be as loud as possible, and there seemed to be at least two brass bands among the spectators. The beer vender threw ice-cold cans over our heads to the rows behind, and vendors roamed with shrimp ceviche or turtle eggs for sale. As in any baseball park, love of the game was palpable, and emotions ran high on the field. After an amazing diving catch and a possible early tag-up from 3rd base, we all jeered and booed when an opposing player almost came to blows with the umps. With young kids, we left in the 6th inning, but not before stopping for some savory BBQ from the ladies cooking meat just outside the stadium. By now there was a much larger group of boys, looking for silver but also just hanging around our strange group of gringos. We were able to recognize our muchacho by his Sponge-Bob shorts, and he ran ahead, showing us the exit we already knew.