Chapter 23: In the waiting line

The next day I wake up and eat a delicious breakfast of Nicaraguan pinolillo, Nicaraguan coffee and Cuban fruit. Then I wander off to the bank to quickly withdraw some money – only to find that this time the line is longer than ever, filling the inside of the bank and the sidewalk outside and it is after 10am and sweltering hot, I ask for the “ultimo persona” in line, wait for someone to get in line after me, and then go and tuck myself in to a thin slice of shade beside the building. When I finally got into the building and had a seat, I took the opportunity to pull out my Spanish notebook and practice my long neglected verb conjugations. With the noise of the aircon, and the traffic outside and all the people milling about, I did not feel shy about practicing half out loud and so my hour in line went by almost quickly. Cubans seem to spend quite a lot of time waiting in absurdly long lines. They wait in line at the bank, at the money changing kiosk, outside of grocery stores, inside of grocery stores, to pay phone bills, to buy phone cards, they even wait in line for ice cream – and we are not talking just normal lines – we are talking amusement park caliber lines if you know what I mean – like stand around in the sun for an hour sweating outside the ice cream shop just to get in another line to get seated at a table to get a bowl of ice cream, and usually there are only two or three flavors to choose from – and there might be five different lines to choose from as well – and each of those lines might have access to different flavors of ice cream and by the time you walk around the block to find the line with the flavor you want – another 20 people have already got in line in front of you. The funny part is that while people really do seem aghast when they happen upon a long line, they seem rather patient in the process of waiting. The odd time I have seen a Cuban in a hurry in a line up they have certainly stuck out like sore thumbs amongst a sea of more or less very calm line waiters.

At the bank, I asked the guy in front of me how long he figured it would take and he just shrugged and said who knows. When I finally got through the line, I ran a few more errands before heading home for some lunch and laundry and packing. I went for one last walk around the city that evening with a stop at the internet kiosk to very happily find that luck had finally decided to agree with me – with the help of my dad pestering Air Canada until they agreed to change my ticket. So I happily finished my cooking and packing and everything at my Havana Casa, and was bid farewell by Cari bright and early at 5am the next morning.

Chapter 22: Settling In – and getting around

Comfortable in my decision to take an unplanned stop in la belle province, I wandered around old Havana the next day (for the second time) to try to find a nice place for my padres to stay. I luckily got a reservation at apparently the only casa in that part of town on with proper windows, and felt a wave of relief and freedom wash over me. I reflected on how this trip had been quite a roller coaster of stresses and reliefs and felt quite content in having weathered what I thought was the final uphill struggle.

I spent a leisurely afternoon in the picturesque old town; drank a ricisimo hot chocolate at the museum of chocolate, took in a few lofty views of the city, badly twisted my ankle in a pot hole full of horse piss, sat myself down on a restaurant patio over a beautiful little square, ate some fried platanos covered in lots of garlic, sat in the sun on the steps of the square for half an hour and finally hobbled back to my hood with a stinky foot along the ocean front malecon at sunset with the accompaniment of a little more than the usual flattery and cat calling from the groups of young men that had congregated at the seaside for some twilight drinks. About half way home a handsome young cubano got down on one knee asking the “princess” to run away with him. When I got home I had a luxurious hot shower and had almost settled down to a stress-free evening when my dad phoned to inform me that Air Canada had changed its mind and that my ticket could not be changed after all – and I would either have to come directly home without my week long layover or stay the course in Cuba – and as lovely as my day had been I still did not want to stay the course as my flattery bank was by now completely full and the overflow was beginning to cause some problems in the mental health department.

Old Havana

I have not yet managed to quite fit in with the local crowd, despite my tan (although I was actually mistaken for a Cubana the other day – much to my delight – but I was quickly discovered when I was unable to answer a question posed to me in Spanish) and I find the society in Havana to be equal parts kindness and helpfulness and equal parts hostility and desperation– the latter makes me think I will never feel comfortable here while the former makes me feel warm and fuzzy and safe and looked after. I have been helped here by the locals on so many occasions it is hard to count – if I stop at a bus stop to ask if the bus that stops there goes my way they will not only confirm that I am at the right stop –but they will also make sure I don’t pay too much, make sure I get on the bus and even make sure I get off at the right stop.

On the crowded public bus the other day, a young guy gave up his seat for me and he and the lady next to me chatted with me the whole time, made sure I got the closest stop to my house, told me to be careful walking at night, and sent me on my way with her phone number and an invitation to call any time. In fact most of my good-will stories involve public transit and I’m convinced that though the guide books say not to go near it, that the bus is actually the best way to travel in this city – provided you’re not in much of a hurry. This is also the cheapest way to get around the city (aside from walking) – costing literally only a few cents.

The most expensive way to get around the city is by a tourist taxi which unless you make them use their meter charge an exorbitant amount of money, I was charged $4 to move casas the first time and I was only going about 6 blocks down the road.
The second most expensive way is to go in an old and run down but still official taxi where you can usually bargain a fare down to a reasonable rate of say 2 CUCs (basically 2 dollars) for what would take an hour to walk.

The second cheapest way to get around is in the old 1950’s giant American cars, some of which are in alarmingly good shape and others which are just downright alarming. These cost either 10 or 20 pesos (50 cents to a dollar) to get you about anywhere a tourist would like to go in this city. Once inside any of these brightly colored automobiles, you feel like you have stepped back into a 1950’s gangster flick – but upfront, instead of two pinstriped gangsters in fedoras, you have one or two Hispanic muchachos, in uber-chic sunglasses and varying amounts of bling. Though they clearly are not from another era they will greet you and usher you in and out of the vehicle with all the laid back cool distancia that you would expect from a 1950s gangster. They are not allowed to pick up tourists so you have to either rely on your feminine whiles or your authentic Cuban looks and language skills– since I have neither of the later I’ll have to assume that it was my elegant silhouette gesturing at the side of the road that got me my half dozen rides in these antique vehicles. If you are lucky enough to have one pull over for you – the harder task is yet to come; you still have to be going in the right direction, and if they did somehow mistake you for a Cuban when they decided to pull over, you have to know how to say where you are going in a very specific way – like a secret password that if you know it they will probably give you a ride whether or not they have realized by this point that you are clearly a foreigner. So with all that explanation it is actually quite a challenge to get a ride in a non-tourist taxi in this city.

Classic car taxis taking a brake in old Havana

When I got my first ride I was feeling pretty gangster-cool myself until my idealistic vision of my wholesome Cuban taxi driver was shattered at the sight of a condom wrapper beside me in the back seat. On my second or third ride I got sandwiched in to the middle front seat and got quite the work out trying to keep my leg from being burnt on something under the car that had clearly long lost whatever protective insulation it once had. By the end of my second week in the city, and after a few slightly traumatically unsuccessful ride catching attempts (one in the midst of a TORENTIAL down pour and one involving a belligerent and extortionate driver), I had had just about enough of Havana taxis and resigned myself to walking and taking the bus, two far more economical options and healthier as well.

But, back to the goodness and kindness business - this part of Cuba shines clearly through at my casa where Cari now refers to me as “mi illa” (meaning my daughter or my girl– which is apparently a very common term of endearment here) and I feel enveloped in the care of two very nice elderly ladies who go out of their way to make me feel at home. So tonight I go off to bed with giant question marks dancing in my head about when to go back home, and how long to stay here and what the heck I’m going to do here if I stay – and why the heck would I want to leave this beautiful Caribbean island a week early anyway…

Chapter 21: Moving again

Food situation sorted out, I settled into my new casa – in a beautiful old home with super high ceilings, a patio and a big bright window that let in an almost steady stream of diesel fumes from a pretty side street that also apparently doubled as an ad-hock bus terminal. I lamented a short while on my poor luck with housing choices but decided to stick it out and accept the foibles as all being part of an authentic taste of Cuba. In my new casa – there were three generations of family living in the house –a couple in their 70-80s who owned the house –their daughter (who managed to room rentals) and their daughter’s daughter who lived upstairs with her fiancé. Occasionally a fourth generation (consisting of a 5 year old boy) popped in for babysitting and a 70 something year old substantial black woman –who always dressed in white and wore a rosary or two around her neck and all kinds of other religious jewelry - who was “like a sister” to the home owners, came over every day from across town to help with stuff around the house.

The lady of the house Carey and her “sister”/housekeeper Faila turned out to be great company. We spent a great deal of time in their kitchen together since I was cooking for myself and they were cooking for themselves. I asked Carey if she minded having foreigners around her house all the time and she said it didn’t bother her, but that it was a necessity and that you really don’t get any privacy. Then I asked her if she minded sharing her kitchen, and she said that guests almost never cook for themselves and she didn’t mind once in a while. So from then on I tried to be a bit more of a ghost in the kitchen, which can be a challenge when you are on a similar eating schedule, but we were on pretty friendly terms after a day or two and everything felt a-ok.

In all this time I managed to do nothing much at all with my time in Havana. I took a dance class, and took in an outdoor afro-Cuban music and dance performance which was amazingly cool – first with an hour of afro-Cuban traditional type dance with costumes and all, then an intermission, then all the traditional dancers and musicians came out in street clothes, complete with bling and sunglasses and alligator shoes and treated us to about 2 hours of Rumba performance – by the last half hour of the show, all the locals in the audience (about 90% of the people) were out on the floor rumbaing themselves – so the traditional folk performance somehow morphed into a giant dance party. I did a lot of waking around the Vedado area (where I was living) which is full of amazingly cool buildings, ice-cream shops, movie theaters, food markets and other cultural type things – but which is not the central attraction of this city by any means.

Traditonal Afro Cuban Dance Performance

Pimped out afrocuban rumba performance

Afrocubans having dance party following the traditional afrocuban dance performance - they definitely know how to move in Cuba

Me and John Lennon

Copellia icecream parlor - though parlor is absolutely not the right word - more like icecream complex - this is only about 1/100th of the seating capacity.

heading upstairs for more icecream at Copelia

an artistic photo of some weeds infront of the ocean

Fancy hotel in Vedado neighborhood

Patriotic photo of cuban flag from the grounds of the fancy Vedado hotel.

view of the Malecon from the top of one of the less swanky hotels in town

Inside the courtyard of a building at the University of Havana in Vedado

I took several excursions to the big agromercado which is always bustling with people and all manner of fruit and veg and beans and snacky things. I scoped out some of the cool fancy hotels with their various period type décor – I snuck up to the top of one and landed on a deserted executive floor with a balcony giving an excellent lofty view of the city. I wandered the Malecon – the seawall/highway that runs the length of the city. I cooked quite a lot – and I spent a LOT of time in the lobby of the swank Melia Cohiba Hotel down the road from my casa – using the internet and trying to wrap my head around how I was going to deal with the fact that I’d just been laid off from the job I thought I was coming home to.

I found this out on the very day that I discovered the ability to freely connect to the internet unhindered by a 10 year old computer running only internet explorer - one minute I was filled with the joy of being able to connect with the outside world, and the next I was filled with a kind of dull shock at reading that I was no longer going home to an assured income – so this put a little jar in my plans and stacked atop of a few days of enduring a few too many cat calls, I made up my mind to head for my homeland a little earlier than planned. But I wasn’t about to leave then and there, especially since my parents had decided to come down to Cuba the following week, so I decided to leave the day after my parents and take a week long stopover in Toronto from whence I would go to Montreal for a week and then return home.

Chapter 20: More about the food

...So, back to the topic of food, after not eating very well for a few days, I was very happy to have a usable kitchen –but then the trick became where to find the food – I moved into my place on a Sunday and the agro market was closed on Monday, but on Tuesday morning bright and early I went to market and came home with bags full of fruit and veg and some beans, but no eggs and no cheese (because there weren’t any) and no meat (because if you saw the meat section in the market you would not have bought any meat either). So, I filled up on fruit for breakfast and cooked all day – and in the evening ate so much beans and corn tortilla and home-made salsa that I made myself feel very unwell – and so learned the important lesson of moderation – and not feasting too much after a famine.

The Fruits (and vegetables) of my trip to the agromercado in Havana

Here we have some freshly home-made corn tortillas (thanks to the corn flour I imported from nicaragua in case of food emergency) freshly sliced guava, pineapple and papaya doused in lime juice...which I have become even more addicted to than I was before I left on this trip - and probably the presence of lime in nearly every dish probably explains why I liked nicaraguan food so much.

Onions and Broccoli - at the market they kept the broccoli behind the counter and just took it out to flash at the odd foreigner walking by - apparently it is not a common veggie in Cuba.

Basil and cilantro - staples of any good meal.

Papaya aka "fruita bomba" in Havana :)

Still, eggs were nowhere to be found except in the form of greasy 2 peso scrambled egg sandwiches that were 90% bun 5% egg and 5% grease. One day I had a grilled cold cut sandwich from the peso cafeteria on the corner – but it turned out to be just a lot of ketchup and mustard and little bit of bottom of the line cold cuts. The Cubans are masters of making a little bit of food look like a lot of food – this sandwich for example – when cut in half and put on display appeared to have ½ an inch worth of meat inside, but really all the meat was strategically placed in the centre of the bun, so when you cut it in half, you saw a lot of meat when really there was almost none. The same goes for pizzas which in some places appear to be huge, but really are thinner than the thinnest crust pizza you ever ate in Canada, but you still feel like a bit of a pig for eating the whole thing – I suppose this is a very important strategy in a land of scarcity – and they do say that half of feeling full is just the psychology of thinking you’ve eaten a lot, but when you start lacking the energy to walk the five blocks from your house to the delightful 5 peso (i.e. 20 cent) ice-cream shop you know you have not been getting quite the amount of protein that you should.




I subsisted on fruit and beans and coffee and corn tortillas and salsa and rum and carbonated water and lime juice for about a week – until I moved into my next casa where they had so many eggs – I couldn’t help but ask if I could buy some from them – they said “of course not – we will give them to you” – and I said “of course not I will buy them” – so we worked out a deal where I got 10 eggs for a dollar and I finally had eggs. I further diversified my protein intake by discovering (or rather, being sent to) a house that sold 25 peso (=$1) boxed lunches consisting of the tastiest pulled pork ever, atop a mountain of congri (Cuban rice and beans) with a few platanos (plantains) and other random fresh veggies thrown in for good measure. With all of these affordable protein and fruit sources now easily at my disposal I felt that my $10/day budget (not including housing) was perhaps actually doable. To top it all off, several days later I discovered some affordable and not unhealthy snack bars made with some kind of sugary paste holding together various forms of nuts and seeds all conveniently wrapped in plastic and ready for a day of walking all around town.

sorting beans turned out to be quite the bonding experience for my and my casa particular family in house #3

My inaugural cuban mojito - the first foray into my Cuban fling with Havana Club.

the 1$ box of delicious pulled pork and congri - it is probably a good thing I had to move out of this house or I would have eaten this almost every day and would likely have gotten very gordita indeed.

Chapter 19: About the men

...Which brings me to an important digression regarding the men of Havana and across tho whole of cuba from what i could tell; This waiter was the first in what would be a long line of unrequited invitations from the very forward Cuban males, and I would love it if I could feel flattered by these come-ons but it’s pretty much guaranteed that these guys are just looking to connect with a rich foreigner who might buy them a few drinks at bar that they couldn’t normally afford to go to. In addition to regularly being asked out – regularly being about once or twice a day – I am also faced with a constant stream (constant being 8 out of every ten men I pass on the street) of equal parts intense wide eyed stares, off hand comments, hissing, whistling, and last but certainly not least, flattery. This is not all that different from Nicaragua, however the simple fact that there are way more people here I think makes it worse.

A typical ten minute walk might go like this –intense stare, whistle, hiss, ola, where are you from, hello lady, hello beautiful, hey baby, guapissimo! Que linda, cosa mas bella, ola mami rico, hiss, stare, hiss, stare, hiss, offhand comment, beautiful, demaciado! Mas bonita, offhand comment, stare, stare, stare, whistle, hiss, hiss, stare, hello lady, excuse me, pregunta, do you speak English?, can I ask you a question?, why not?, why you don’t talk to me?, stare, whistle, offhand comment etc. etc. etc. I have been filling my ego bank with all the phrases that fit into the flattery category, although the line between flattering and off-hand can sometimes be blurry when you don’t really speak the language – but regardless, my ego bank is now very full of some very ego enhancing Spanish comments – this is the only consolation for having to put on male blinders wherever I go. It is very unnatural to completely ignore someone who is talking directly at you – especially when they follow you into your front gate – in which case the strategy has to switch from ignoring to shooing away – but it seems to be getting marginally easier the more time passes. But back to the question of food...

Chapter 18: About the food

It had taken me a few days to figure out the whole eating thing in cuba– the kitchen in my first home stay was very un-user friendly, so self catering was pretty much out of the question – on my second day, I had nuts for lunch. A friend of a friend took me out for coffee that night where they happened to have a very tasty cold cut and cheese sandwich with my name on it. The next day Olga made me breakfast, I had the last of my nuts for lunch and dinner. The next day, I had breakfast from Olga yet again – and then just about starved most of the day – until I broke down and went for a 10$ meal at a paladar – (a restaurant in somebody’s house with expensive food for foreigners). They tried somewhat aggressively to up sell me to a $15 meal and but I pleaded poverty so they would allow me to order the cheaper meal – which backfired when the waiter brought me a free ice-cream for desert – chatted me up for half an hour and then, rather aggressively, gave me his phone number, invited me for a walk and asked me when I would call. When I said I probably wouldn’t call – he wasn’t impressed but he let me go on my way without putting up too much of a fight...

Chapter 17: Hello Havana!

I arrived full of dread of the Cuban customs process which I had heard was known to go to unreasonable lengths to ensure nothing contraband entered the country - but when I finally got my backpack and wandered into the area where people’s bags were being completely unpacked and sorted through, the guard waved me on to a mysterious dark and abandoned door way which I approached with much trepidation, until realizing this was actually the exit. Bewildered by my good luck I changed some money, got a cab (with a little bit of an argument with the drivers about which cab I wanted to get in) and was quickly shuttled off to my home stay. On the way I was determined to try out my Spanish on my grumpy Cuban driver who eventually dropped the grumpiness and decided to converse with me. I arrived at my home stay and after being shown around by my host Olga – went immediately to bed.

The bed was lumpy and bumpy and rather uncomfortable, and I was in temperature shock – for after 2 months of sweating under a single sheet every night – I was freezing under both a sheet and a blanket. I awoke feeling chilled and was quite happy to accept a reasonable breakfast from Olga before venturing out to find a bank and a new place to live – not that there was anything horribly wrong with this place – but the jackhammers next door were a little less than hospitable, and I had had enough of living in rooms without any proper windows – so, I spent the afternoon scouting out casas particulars –this was a great way to do an architectural tour of the city because the inside of houses is always as interesting as the outside – especially when they are real people’s houses and especially when they are Cuban houses.

the bulldozer as seen from my noisy room on saturday morning.

detail of a rag rug on the patio of my first room

old house in Vedado neighbourhood

The houses in this part of town are immensely varied – from pristine historical mansions, to crumbling historical mansions, to slightly run down 50’s era walk ups, to completely derelict 50’s era walk ups, to shiny pristine 50’s era walk ups, to sketchy looking 70’s high-rises – there are really all manner of houses here - some look like they should be condemned from the outside but sure enough someone lives there, some are bright and shiny newly restored gems – and pretty much every building would be a gem if properly restored - I found a few good candidates for accommodation, booked a place for five nights later and told Olga I was leaving in two nights. She didn’t seem bothered when I told her about the move and I was relieved to be leaving the construction zone sooner rather than later.

That night I joined Susana (my Cuban house hunter) a bunch of random Canadians and one Russian for dinner at a French restaurant that served nothing but pizza and pasta. The pizza was a reasonable 2.50 for a giant round of cheese and a few tiny streaks of tomato sauce – it tasted great as did the very strong mojito that I ordered with dinner. We walked home at about 10 and I was assured that I would be fine to go the last two blocks on my own, so with some slight unconfortability in my new and unfamiliar surroundings, off I went down the dark street – and other than being barked at by a few dogs – nothing happened. I went to sleep with an extra blanket and almost didn’t freeze.

The next day was house hunting yet again and I got myself all sorted out with a very nice apartment atop a three story old house with a nice view to the ocean. So I now had housing for about the next two weeks – and then would have to find something else or leave the city – this was not turning out to be the relaxing staycation I had dreamed it would be, but I figured I would just go with the flow and see what came my way. So, I spent the better part of that week holed up in my sunny lofty Cuban apartment eating fruit and catching up on work.

view from my new and much better apartment

another view from the great new apartment if only I could have stayed there longer...

Chapter 16: Nada Mas en Nicaragua

I hung out in the airport until about 9pm and caught a shuttle back to Granada where, exhausted, I very happily passed out in a cozy dorm bed at Hostal Oasis. The next morning I woke early had a nice breakfast and soaked up the laid-back backpacker atmosphere before heading to my standby Granada B&B for my last night in Nicaragua.

That day I went for a quick visit to see my Spanish teacher, and book a ride out to the airport. Then I went out to Masaya to do some last minute shopping. I bought a lot of stuff whilst trying to keep in mind all the stuff I ever regretted not buying in my previous travels. In the end I went home with a new t-shirt, a hammock, lots of scarves and earrings and bracelets a blanket and a painting, all of which I had to lug home on the bus which luckily took me almost directly to my B&B. Then I took a walk down to the supermarket “for rich people” (as I was told by my friendly French B&B host) and stocked up on all the things that I figured would be hard (if not impossible) to get in Cuba – including corn flour, olive oil, dish soap, hand soap, hair elastics, pinolio (a Nica drink mix made of corn and cinnamon) and I think that’s all. I also purchased for dinner and lunch the next day, a pineapple, two mangos, three limes, a carton of chocolate milk, some cheese a bag of corn chips, a bag of plantain chips and four bottles of rum. I got home late, made my dinner, attempted to pack and passed out exhausted – so much for my last hurrah in Nicaragua.

(bus on the way home from Masaya souveneer shopping)

(rum aquired extremely cheaply at the supermarket for rich people)

(textiles purchased in Mssaya)

(more textiles from masaya)

The next day I ran out on some last minute morning errands, packed and repacked and headed off to the airport with the Spanish school’s official driver Omar who I could now have almost a normal conversation with (in contrast to not being able to say more than a few words to when he picked me up on my arrival in Nicaragua). I was denied a luggage cart for my lack of Nicaraguan currency and so Omar left his motor running and helped me inside with my giant backpack, my small backpack, my purse and my giant bag full of souvenirs. I said goodbye and checked-in for my flight. The airline guy very kindly gave me a handicapped “must fly” tag for my giant souvenir bag – because even though I had just bought it that morning and even though the saleslady assured me the zipper was strong – as soon as I went to zip it up the zipper broke beyond repair – luckily I had had the foresight to buy some tape but all the same, I didn’t really want to send it though Cuban luggage handling so luckily I didn’t have to. I wandered the airport a bit picked up some last minute trinkets – including the best chocolate ever in the world – practically fresh off the tree – so I had to eat it all right then and there or it would go stale. Got one flight to San José, and then on to Havana –

Chapter 15: Leaving Little Corn

Lulled to sleep by the sound of the waves, I awoke early yet again and saw the sun rise from the comfort of my bed with the cabana doors swung wide open. I got up, went for a long walk, and a slow breakfast.

(sunrise from in bed :)

(sun rise)

After breakfast I went on another long walk in search of some long sought after coconut oil (which I had tried to purchase all over Nicaragua, and chased all over Corn Island at several stores who had all run out of stock) I finally got my prize by going to the source– Derek’s place an isolated spot at the north end of the island. To get there I had to walk up a deserted beach, skirt a precarious rocky outcrop, walk up another deserted beach, skirt a somewhat less precarious rocky outcrop and finally walk up one last stretch of slightly less deserted beach (only because this one had a boat on it) before arriving and the surreal location that is Derek’s Place – the property is covered with spongy mossy grassy knolls sporting the occasional palm tree and several rustic looking cabins. I found Derek and his family hanging out in what I suppose would be the dining room (an open air cabana with a kitchen attached to it).


They had just finished bottling up a fresh batch of coconut oil and were more than happy to sell me a few bottles, give me a tour and send me on my way. I wandered a little farther along the coast before deciding to head back home to avoid the worst of the sun.

(Deserted beach on the way to Derek's place)

(Derek's place with the weird mossy grass)

I got moved out of my cabana and enjoyed my last few hours in paradise. We caught the afternoon panga back to big corn island (which was completely calm and non-traumatic in comparison to the ride on the way there) and very luckily made it off the waitlist and onto the afternoon flight to Managua.

(much less overcrowded boat setting out for a much less bumpy ride to Big Corn)

Chapter 14: And did I mention the rum?

Finally I had a day of sleeping in (till about 7:30) – went for a swim, and a walk. Woke Laura up and tried to go to Iguana’s for breakfast but missed it by half an hour. So we drank some coffee, pre ordered lunch and went down to a tiny little secluded beach to relax until it was time to eat. We passed a relaxing afternoon on the beach, and went into town for a sunset dinner at the best restaurant in town – a Cuban place with a specialty in lobster –I ordered the lobster and for $15 and got 5 perfectly prepared tails in an amazing garlic sauce – accompanied by some fresh shrimp in an amazing garlic chili sauce – this was another mouth watering, life altering meal – and the evening was topped off on a festive note by several rounds of free rum at tranquillos, a little alcohol induced chaos/drama mixed in with another late walk home.

(Tranquillo's selection of rum)

Chapter 13: All work and no play makes for a productive day.

The next day I awoke to the offensive odor of pesticide drifting into my cabana – and realized that my little slice of tropical paradise and the “eco” hotel I was staying in was not at all “eco” and was contaminated with probably several gallons of Raygon to keep the bugs at bay. So although we had been entreated to conserve the precious water resources, apparently no effort was being made to keep the toxic pesticidal chemicals out of the aquifer. A later conversation revealed that although there were some superficial eco features to this eco establishment – they really had a long way to go in terms of ecofreindliness – a problem that surfaced at a number of different places on this trip – green washing has definitely infiltrated the tourism industry.

That day I got down to some serious work – it is kind of hard to work with turquoise waters and comfy hammocks right outside your door – but then again, the sea breeze and the sound of the waves make for a pretty choice office environment – so while my roomie went out diving for the day, I sat on my ergonomic mattress with the double doors of my cabana swung open and had a very productive day – and after a quick after-work swim, I was feeling ready for another life altering dinner at Casa Iguana – unfortunately, lightening never strikes in the same place twice and this night’s dinner paled in comparison – however doubling up on the basilito did help a little, and the after party which consisted of yet another bonfire, the breaking in of a new guitar, an excellent ukulele performance, lots of nice conversation, and definitely a bit too much rum - more than made up for the lackluster food. This time the party was on the other side of the island – which made for a long walk home with a very intoxicated roommate – but luckily a good Samaritan neighbor made for an excellent chaperone through the dark and scary jungle and back along the deserted beach.

The other side of the island...

(Tanquillo's pub)

(mainstreet - actually more like main sidewalk since there are no cars or roads of any sort)


The things you have to cross to get to the other side...

(Jungly bit)

(residential bit)

(another jungly bit)

(the rural bit)

After about an hour of trying to sleep I decided to wake up for the sunrise and was surprised to find a few other people attempting the same thing – however, all of us were let down because it turned out to be a cloudy day and there was no sun to be seen. I went for a walk, and for some breakfast and finally for a four hour nap - followed by several hours of hanging out at Tranquillo's, a cute little outdoor bar/pub/restaurant type place (which was the site of the party the night before) eating gooey chocolate chip cookies covered in whipped cream, and drinking fresh lemonade. Finally, went for a lobster dinner (the local special) at a little place in town, and wandered home again for a quiet night.

Chapter 12: The Rum

That afternoon we did a bit of exploring around the island – went for a gourmet pulled pork wrap lunch at Casa Iguana, walked into town, and walked back home again. That evening, we went for a gourmet dinner at Casa Iguana, and this meal will forever live in my mind and taste buds as one of the best ever – with an amazing garlic, feta and green leaf salad (which you could better understand my appreciation for if the closest thing you had to a green salad in the past two months was cabbage with a bit of lime squeezed over it) followed by fresh snapper with a cilantro sauce poured over it – with cheesy mashed potatoes as a side, followed by the most amazing fresh out of the oven chocolate cake covered with chocolate sauce – and to drink –the best drink ever – a basilito (like a mojito but with basil instead of mint) made with about the smoothest rum ever made (I don’t know if I’ve mentioned it but the rum in Nicaragua is about the best ever – the dark one is so sweet and caramelly, and the light one super suave - all but undetectable in a good mixed drink and they each make for a very dangerous beverage because you just don’t want to stop drinking because they are just that good). All in all a life altering meal which was followed by a wander down to the beach to enjoy yet another bonfire, and bit of socializing with the local expat community which was followed by a very pleasant walk home along the beach. Another very lovely evening.

(Hamaica (hibiscus) infused rum)

(rum and coke)

Chapter 11: Tropical paradised

Since I didn’t quite know where to go next I thought a night at my favorite Laguna could not be a bad idea – and in fact it turned out to be a very good idea as it was here that I met my next travel buddy who at the last minute was persuaded by the hostel owner, to travel with me to Little Corn Island out on the Atlantic coast, a place I really wanted to go to but really didn’t want to go to alone. So that day she went off to Leon, and I went off to Granada and with a day and a half to work out travel details and airline tickets, we met on Thursday at the airport in Managua and flew off in a tiny little 12 seater plane to Big Corn Island, where we caught a 30 seater speed boat (called a panga en espanol), filled with 50 people over to Little Corn.

Wee little airplane

Flying over Big Corn Island

Speedboat overload

This last leg of the journey was by far the worst boat ride I have ever taken in my entire life and I will spend the rest of my life trying to never experience a boat ride like it again. Because of the fullness of the boat –my only choice was to take a seat at the very front of the boat facing backwards – I was seated directly across from a couple of guys from Vancouver (incidentally) who graciously donated their knees to my vice grip as I tried to weather the bumpy ride without throwing up or falling out. With my back to the waves I was very happy that the guy onto whose knees I was hanging for dear life provided me with an excellent early warning system for the worst of the bumps as he commented every few moments “oh, this is going to be big” “oh - another big one” after a while, I could tell how hard I should hold on by the amount of feeling he put into his “oh”s .

After about forty minutes of bouncing along through the swells – we finally reached beautiful Little Corn and immediately set out to find a place to stay – greeted by a friendly Australian dive instructor named Jeff who gave us some helpful direction, we wandered over to the “other side” of the island, surveyed all the available places (there were about four little hotels in a row all renting out cute little beach bungalows) and in the end decided to splurge on the more upscale locale of the bunch – brand new and equipped with very comfy mattresses and a private bathroom with shiny white tiles and lovely new wood paneling. We managed to get a good deal on our room, moved our stuff in, got the orientation chat from the manager and got a free welcome Tona (the national beer) which we promptly followed up with another and began to feel settled into our new digs.

Beautiful Little Corn Island

We decided to check out the bonfire/barbecue at a place called the Happy Hut that Jeff had invited us to. On the way we passed the three other bungalow renting establishments on the beach and ran into a crowd of very drunk people, which was surprising since we had seen all the same people completely sober only a few hours earlier and now they were falling all over each other and could barely walk – we followed them halfway to the bonfire at which point they wandered off in another direction – leaving us in alone the jungle with Jeff and a guy named Charlie who turned out to be the manager of the biggest bungalow renting establishment on the island, called Casa Iguana. The bonfire had yet to be lit, so we grabbed a plate of barbecued chicken and chatted with a combination of locals and expats who had been working and living on the Island for various periods of time.

Finally the huge pile of wood and various other debris was lit - with a flourish of pride from the pile builder - it was very pretty, but as I went to have a closer look I began to ponder the logic of lighting a massive bonfire in place that is incredibly hot to begin with – as I voiced my concern over this situation I was given several explanations for the practice –A.) It’s something to do, B.) It’s pretty and C.) It’s a competition – because there are at least three bonfires a week in three different places that all try to top each other with the size of their fire. This particular fire was so large that it threatened to set the tree above it up in flames – but thankfully, it didn’t. After the charm of the fire wore off we headed off to play some pool for a bit, and then sat on the beach for a bit, then walked home under the stars with the waves lapping at our feet – not a bad first night in a tropical paradise.

The next morning we went out on a little panga to the north end of the island to do some snorkeling. The view on the way there was amazing; I have never seen such clear blue water and such a concentration of palm trees on beaches. We arrived at the first snorkeling site, jumped in the water and put on our gear. I never thought I was one to get easily seasick, but this trip is certainly proving me wrong – after about half an hour of looking down onto the incredible coral formations, and all kinds of many colored many shaped fish, I began to feel a bit queasy – I’m not sure if it was the motion of the waves or the few mouthfuls of incredibly salty water I had taken in – or that I ate something bad for breakfast – but after another half an hour all I could do was float on my back in order to not throw up.

It is a terrible feeling being sea sick while you are in 30 feet of water and miles away from any shore but It was either that, or sit in the rocking boat and the scorching sun waiting for the others to come back and since neither option was ideal – I chose the cool water. Luckily I had managed to see some great underwater sights before I became too overwhelmed by my bout of seasickness – and I have to say, the feeling that comes with watching stingrays and nurse sharks swimming around below you definitely compensates for the feeling of your stomach being turned inside out and sloshed about by the constantly moving water. Eventually we got back in the boat and headed for site number two. I really hoped that my stomach would recover, but when I got back in the water and had a look see at the sea floor – I immediately felt unwell again – so I floated around on my back for half an hour and finally we headed back to dry land.