Congratulations, Nicaragua, you win for being the most disorganized immigration proceedings I've ever experienced. I can only compare it to the Qalandiya checkpoint between Ramallah and East Jerusalem in terms of disorganization, length of processing time, and sleepy border guards. Although at Qalandiya, the turnstiles meant there had to be some kind of line formed, some kind of order. The Managua airport in Nicaragua had no stanchions, no authorities trying to guide people to order (and no young, bored soldiers standing around with large guns) - just clusters of visitors and residents, all trying to get ahead of one another. It slightly, but only ever-so, diminished my excitement about landing, for the first time, in Central America. Once you were actually in front of an immigration official, things were easy. You presented your passport, your declaration form, and your $10 visa fee (which an American man in line behind me seemed to think was a ridiculous charge); they took a picture of you and sent you on your way.
One of the first things I noticed about Nicaragua was the smell: that miasma of acrid smoke; of something burning that probably wasn't intended to be disposed of in such a way. The smell immediately took me back to landing in Uganda in 2009. It was the same smell. And it was one that I would encounter continuously throughout the next 9 days in Nicaragua.
Another thing you notice immediately about Nicaragua: no one speaks English. Information booth at the airport? Barely. Immigration official? Nope. Security guard? Nope. Guy outside directing traffic? Nope. Other airport workers? Nope. Oh silly me, who hasn't traveled beyond Canada and the USA in the last four years, don't you remember that people speak different languages in different countries?! Of course I knew there would be a language barrier, but I thought that there would be some English spoken considering how many tourists are in Nica! Oh how wrong I was. Not that it was a bad thing. I was able to put to use the year and a half of Spanish I took in my Undergraduate degree, and which I was thankful for taking every single day of my trip. Being (mostly) fluent in French also helped.
So then, a word to the wise: apparently you can't just catch a taxi in front of the airport. Well you can and you can't. It has to be a certified taxi...maybe? I'm not 100% sure on this one, since some people were climbing into taxis left right and center; but when we asked to be taken to the UCA Bus Terminal, we were turned away. Finally, one taxi driver motioned to us to leave the airport grounds and he would pick us up on the street, which he did!
Now, I'm not sure if I was aware of this fact before I landed in Nica or not, but Nicaragua is the second-poorest country in the Western Hemisphere. And you see it. On the fifteen minute drive from the airport to the bus terminal, I was again reminded of my time in Uganda: dirt roads, slums, scruffy kids running around shirtless and barefoot, stray dogs and chickens everywhere, metal-fronted shops selling chips/cigarettes/snacks/sodas, tons of trash (not that this list of observable poverty is all there is to observe in either Uganda or Nicaragua, by any means).
My husband and I were slightly worried when our taxi driver picked up two other people en route to the bus terminal, but he dropped them off quickly. He pulled over to pick up two others, but after less than half a second of interaction with these men, he zoomed away. Apparently he knew immediately that they were drunk. A rather astute fellow!
Managua UCA bus terminal, like all the bus terminals in Nicaragua, has 14/15-passenger mini-vans for expreso trips to your destination - as in, not stopping every fifty feet to pick up/drop off a passenger - and large school buses, or chicken buses that cost less but cram as many people on as possible and constantly stop and start. We stood in line for an expreso bus to Leon, but considering it was Christmas Day and there were a solid thirty people ahead of us in line, we figured this would take a while. We befriended a young Nicaraguan woman beside us who, fortunately, spoke English. When a man made an announcement that he would drive to Leon if he got fifteen passengers to pay 80 Cordobas (up from the usual C60), she translated for us. Interestingly, almost no one (besides us, our young friend, and another tourist couple who had already been waiting over an hour for an expreso bus to show up) jumped at this opportunity. The regular price for the bus was 60 Cordobas, just over $2. An extra 20 Cordobas is ~ $.75, and yet Nicaraguans standing in line didn't even budge when the offer was made. For us, an extra $0.75 is nothing. To a regular Nicaraguan, perhaps it's an unaffordable luxury.
In any event, we made it to Leon where we checked into our room at El Nancite Guesthouse, a lovely hotel with two beautiful inner courtyards. Nearly every building we entered in Nicaragua - homes, hotels, restaurants, bars, etc. - had an inner courtyard filled with plants, trees, flowers, maybe a fountain and/or hammock. So gorgeous. The owner of El Nancite is John Corronna, a New Yorker from Brooklyn who is married to a Nicaraguan woman and who has lived in Nica for the last 16 years. He's a straight-shot kind of guy. Really laid-back and easy-going, quite helpful, very friendly, and as candid as they come.
Our time in Leon was spent eating at an amazing French bakery, Pan y paz, checking out the beaches Poneloyas and Las Penitas, Volcano Boarding with Quetzaltrekkers, and wandering around the town square trying to make sense of a bizarre tradition whereupon kids dressed up as a tall Spanish lady and a short Nicaraguan man dance to random beatings of a snare drum, played by other kids. We easily could have spent another day in Leon, especially to check out some of the museums and art galleries, but didn't think we had time.
The (extremely windy) day at the beach was somewhat tainted when my iPhone took an unexpected dip into the salty waters of the Pacific Ocean. Fortunately we had a yummy dinner (plus a bag of dry rice which would encase my phone for the next nine days) at Barca de Oro to make up for it. The bus ride home was an interesting affair. I ran to catch the bus and ask the driver to wait for my husband, who was inside at the restaurant paying. In the time it took the bus to turn around, my husband climbed safely aboard. But the bus was absolutely jam-packed; it was one of the last buses of the evening, and beachgoers were trying to get back into Leon. Seeing as my husband and I were practically hanging out the open door of the bus, the driver scooted his seat forward and indicated that we should clamber behind him and wedge ourselves between his seat and the first passenger seat of the bus. There, we had a stellar view of just how crammed the bus was: 3-4 people to a seat, 70 people in the aisle, crying babies. Just as we started down the road and I thought "We can't possibly fit anymore people in here", the driver stops to let on about 15 more passengers, mostly sopping wet kids who pushed their way into the interior of the bus. As I came to find out, personal space seems to be somewhat of an option in Nicaragua...
Volcano boarding was a really fun way to spend a day, and I highly recommend Quetzaltrekkers! We had a really nice guide from Sweden, Arvin, who is volunteering in Nicaragua. We took a truck ride to the base of Cerro Negro Volcano, and then did a 45-minute hike up a rocky, dusty path to the top. The views from the top were really amazing - Nicaragua is definitely a beautiful country! I had a completely different idea of what volcano boarding would entail: I imagined boarding down right next to red-hot lava. Apparently I don't know much about volcanoes or how they work. Instead, we rode wooden boards down a steep hill of dry volcanic stone and ash, resulting in lots of rocks in my bra, underwear, eyes, mouth, and hair. But it was fun! Then we hiked up and did it all again. This time, though, we took a little detour to check out some steaming sulphuric vents in the side of the volcano. Very cool.
Tip: if you go volcano boarding, absolutely bring two bandannas - one to cover your mouth and the other to cover your hair. As I only had one bandanna, I chose to cover my mouth, which meant my hair got full of rocks and dust. Despite washing it three times in succession, I was still picking rocks off my scalp several days later.
