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Today again, I have the uncanny feeling of regression in time, closer to the simple life of the 'real people'. Here in Nicaragua, the people wave again. They look a lot poorer, with tattered clothes, but their hearts show. At the border the guard gave me a solid handshake and said 'Bienvenido en Nicaragua libre' (Welcome to FREE Nicaragua), and one could feel, that it was not an empty saying, and that it really came from his heart. I think, I am going to like the people here, these people, who are willing to go through all kinds of hardships, in order to be free, free from American economic domination. One of Sandino's famous sayings is: 'Better to die as a rebel, than to live as a slave'. What an encouraging counter point to Canada, which just practically has been sold out to the United States for the sake of virtually thirty pieces of silver by Prime Minister Mulroney, with the sanction in the last election of a significant portion of the electorate.
I arrived at the border shortly before 09:00, after covering the 20 kilometers across the isthmus from the Pacific Ocean to Lake Nicaragua. I changed some of my Costa Rican colones into Nicaraguan cordobas from a private money changer, who advised me to hide it on my body, where I would not be searched, before crossing the border.
Then across the border, first through the fumigation procedure, which cost me US$ 1.00, and then to exchange the obligatory US$ 60.00 at the official rate into cordobas. As it turned out the rate I got here was 10% better than the 'black market' rate on the other side! Now after having exchanged the equivalent of C$ 125.00, I am stuck with a wad of bills five centimeters thick, and with a fifth of a million cordobas I feel very rich. Most of the bills I got at the border are of the denomination of 500 cordobas, which translates to about C$ 0.30!
The other formalities took just over an hour including: clearance of my bicycle through the country for the princely fee of C$ 0.07, for which an official receipt had to be made out in triplicate, foreign currency declaration form, entry card and Customs inspection. Canadians now do not need a visa, and automatically get permission to stay for 90 days. Customs inspection was quite cursory. Everything was conducted in a very friendly manner, and one is really made to feel welcome. After all this I visited the modern duty free store, which was well stocked and sold all the usual items, and then some, mostly of European origin, at reasonable prices in US dollars.
What do I see, as I finally get onto the road: two other bicyclists coming the other way, one American from Washington, D.C., and one Canadian from Victoria, B.C. They had come down all the way from Mexico, and I was the first foreign cyclist, they had met since leaving there.
The last two hours of my ride were dominated by the spectacularly looming shapes of the two volcanoes (one of them active and having a perfect shape) on Isla de Ometepe in Lake Nicaragua. While there were still a lot of cattle, one could also see fields of sorghum. Whereas in Costa Rica they were cutting the grass at the edge of the highway either with machetes, or even sometimes with tractor and mechanical mover, here the cows are let onto the right-of-way to do the job. Often they wander across or lie on the pavement. Shades of India! And this includes the state of maintenance the pavement is in.
Now, 36 kilometers past the border, I am staying in the once modern Hotel Nicaragua in this unassuming town of 25000. The price quoted at the desk was 8500 cordobas (C$ 4.60), while the authorized price according to the notice on the door was double that. What a difference compared to Costa Rica, where everything was new, freshly painted and colourful. Looking at the main square here, one could imagine oneself in Eastern Europe. There are stores, but there are no signs over them, and one has to guess at what they sell by looking inside. Besides, they seem to be all closed. On a Saturday afternoon in other places people would be milling around the streets and in the park. Here everything is quiet and locked up, as on a Sunday morning. And over all broods the volcano, completely free of cloud now, with only a tuft of steam being emitted from its top.
The restaurant on the highway, where I had lunch before arriving here, was somewhat run down also, but it was the rustic type of being run down, which made it comfortable and homey to sit down in. The meal was good, as was the beer. Instead of potatoes, here they serve fried plantains, which look and taste much like French Fries.
As I am going to sleep tonight, I am being serenaded (not myself personally, of course) by a small local orchestra with lovely Latin American melodies. They are out in the hall, playing for whoever I am not bothering to find out.
27 November 1988, Granada
Another day and another 70 kilometers brought me to this charming town, which could be taken right out of 17th century Spain. Granada is, at least architecturally, the cultural centre of Nicaragua. In the old days it was vying with the more modern Leon, to be the capital of the country. Then a compromise was struck, and the capital established at Managua, about halfway between the competing towns.
I arrived here at 13:00, and took a room in one of the 'pensiones' the guidebook recommended, for the unbelievable cost of C$ 0.55 for the night. It is quite adequate, and there is plenty of water in the communal bathroom. Having saved so much on accommodation, I splurged for lunch and had 'langoustas' (lobster tails) for lunch in the air conditioned 'Restaurant Asia'. Cost including two ice cold beer (and I mean ICE COLD, it hardly came out of the bottle): C$ 6.00.
Just as I am typing this in the courtyard of my 'pension', I got interrupted by somebody looking at my Radioshack Model 100 computer, a slim American, who is also staying here. He admired my typing skill, but he himself is a software specialist living here in the country. He has been in Nicaragua for nine months, but now is almost ready to go back. He constitutes, so to speak, a one-man aid organization. He came here to help Nicaraguans with his skill, and works for/with a group of similar minded people, to provide software consulting services for local commercial and government organizations. His pay is US$ 25.00/month plus room and board. On top of that, he will probably leave his own computer here with the locals, when he returns to the States. He is one of those Americans, who do not fit the norm, and whom one can really admire.
After that I rode down to the beach on Lake Nicaragua. There is quite a nice park there with many restaurants, and the dock where boats go to the different islands. It certainly is a huge lake, almost the size of Lake Ontario. A short storm sent me right back to the pension, where I discovered that one of the screws for my front carrier on the bike had loosened and fallen off. So much for an early start tomorrow, as I will have to find a replacement, before I can put a load on it.
So what happened to me on the road today? Judging by the amount of activity in the streets yesterday, I was not surprised to find nothing open in Rivas in the morning for breakfast, especially not, since it was a Sunday morning. So I just left, hoping to find something on the road. Well, I did pick up three oranges and a plantain at a total cost of 10 cents, and about 30 kilometers further there was a restaurant of sorts, where I had breakfast then. Wonderfully yellow scrambled eggs (no factory produced North American eggs these) with 'frijoles' (black beans), tortilla and black coffee for C$ 0.60. Great stuff!
At least I had something in my stomach for the scare I experienced on the road later. A three metre long snake was trying to cross the road, and I almost ran over it. Both it and I veered away, and none of us was the worse for it. But my heart was pounding for a while after. It was bright yellow green with no markings, whether it was poisonous I have no way of telling. Shortly after that, I came across another one, which had been run over by a car. That one was of the same size and surely poisonous, having distinct zigzag markings, which most poisonous snakes have.
There really is not much traffic on this road, although it is the Pan-American Highway. The odd local bus passes, and the odd bullock cart with solid wooden wheels, and then ever so often a shining Toyota Landcruiser or Range Rover with some rich tourists, trying to get as quickly as possible from one tourist attraction to the next, and of course also some of those big over-land trucks plying between Guatemala and Costa Rica. But there are many long minutes, when there is no vehicle in sight as far as one can see. The road is rather rough in places, reminding me of the roads in India; and that is how my screw on the carrier got loosened. Some of these stretches are actually in the last stage before total disintegration, not that that would worry a well sprung Range Rover. I really would not want to change with these tourists. What do you see, as you zip by like that, only the distant views and a few fleeting faces, and those are likely not going to smile as they do at me.
One face did not smile at me today, though. It was that of a female army person, telling me not to take photos in a military zone. I had just stopped to buy an ice cream from one of the itinerant vendors, and had taken a picture of him. He was stopped in front of, what I at first thought was a farm collective. A bunch of young uniformed girls, which I thought looked cute, were also on the highway, trying to hitch a ride into town, and I had decided I would take some video footage of them too. Well, I did not, and after apologizing put my camera away. Really only then did I realize that some of the girls back at the 'camp' where carrying machine guns, and that there were some covered up shapes between the buildings, which, I imagined, could have been artillery pieces.
Walking through the dark streets of the town tonight, this country strikes me as a disaster area, or maybe as if time has stood still for a couple of centuries. Most streets are unpaved, maybe they never were. People sit in their open doorways, and talk to each other in low voices, some watch television. They have beautiful rocking chairs here. In one way this reminds me of India, with the dilapidated and ancient state of buildings. But the Indians are born of a different culture, their clothing is colorful, their behaviour oriental. These people here are a curious mix of European old-worldliness and Meso-American Indian stoicism. They are quite different in a way from the Costa Ricans, who exhibit an Americanized (North-) and modernized way of life.
28 November 1988, Managua
Apart from loosing the screw on my front carrier yesterday, this morning I discovered that a part of it was also half broken. I had gotten up a little later anyway, so I could by a new screw, but even so, there was no restaurant open for breakfast. But at the market they were selling coffee and buttered (margarine) slices of bread, and I had my fill of that. On the way out of town, I found a welding shop, where I had my carrier fixed, and a new screw put on.
The road to Managua (50 kilometers) was a lot less hilly than I had expected. The grades on the mostly smooth highway were even, and not too steep. Now close to the capital, there seemed to be a lot of military presence, and the traffic also was fairly heavy. Quite a few military jeeps of East German manufacture were in evidence.
For lunch I stopped at a roadside restaurant 10 kilometers short of Managua, where I had a good meal of beef tongue and salad. It coincided with a heavy downpour, which surely would have soaked me, had I been on the road then.
A conspicuous experience when travelling in these parts is that even within one kilometer of a town centre one still thinks one is in open countryside, and then one suddenly hits the urban area. Managua is different. Signs of cityscape appeared already five kilometers out. This suburban, broken-up atmosphere continued well into the city centre. In fact, what used to be the core of the old city has now a rather park like appearance. Hiroshima and Dresden would have looked like that after the bombing, and after the rubble had been cleared away. Here in an area covering say ten city blocks there may be five buildings still standing, which were built solid enough to withstand the earthquake of 1972. The city centre was never rebuilt. Perhaps the dictator Somoza felt there was no point, as the city had just been completely rebuilt after the devastating quake of 1931. This city really is a town planners dream, to be able to plan something new, without the impediments of existing buildings and infra-structure. But then, the volcano Momotombo beckons from just across the lake with its tiny plume of smoke issuing from the top of its perfect shape.
By the way, the destructive power of this volcano is being tamed now. Some European firms are constructing a thermo-electric plant utilizing the steam from this active volcano. It is hoped that the output from this plant will be able to supply one third of Nicaragua's electric power needs, when completed.
The one recommended hotel was just in this Hiroshima like area, one of the few buildings still standing. It did look half decent from the outside, but inside had suffered more than it appeared, more from neglect, though, than from the quake. They wanted US$ 11.00 for a large but dingy room, more then 20 times, than what I had paid the night before. It was the first time, that I turned away from a hotel on this trip. My next choice was only one dollar less in price, but so much better in appearance.
The hotel, where I am staying, seems to be where all the international 'do-gooders' hang out (pardon the sarcastic expression), who come here for one purpose or another. Of course, the locals take advantage of the easy dollars. Most hotels in Managua do not accept their own local currency, and the prices for other services, like drinks, are also about double of what they are in the countryside, or even yesterday in Granada, which is supposed to be the third largest city in the country. I just do hope, that some of the starry-eyed volunteers living here do get away from Managua and experience the real people outside of the capital.
29 November 1988, Managua
I went to the CEPAD office (Evangelical Committee for Aid to Development) today, to look for the Whitmore's, a couple whom my son Roland had met during his summer with HABITAT (an organization assisting poor people to build their own houses) in Georgia. I met another American, Robert Massonneau there, who told me, where to find them. Tomorrow and for the next few days the Whitmore's will be at a project site some 80 kilometers to the north, where I shall pass through, after having re-routed part of my trip. I also met the president of the Committee, Senor Gustavo Parajon, who advised me to speak to his assistant Harmando Gutierrez, regarding a possible involvement of myself in their work in the future. They are now looking at some substantial work in connection of re-building the hurricane devastated areas in Bluefields and the Corn Islands.
It happens to me once on every trip, that I become the victim of a pickpocket, and generally in the most unlikely places. I had telephoned the Honduran consulate to find out, whether I could get my visa for that country at the border, or whether I must get it here. It had to be here, I was told, and the consulate is about 15 kilometers out of town. At first I inquired about the cost of a taxi, and was given the price of about C$ 16.00 one way. Of course, I felt this was gouging, and said it was too much, and walked off to the bus stop. The guide book said to take bus 118. That cost only half a cent, but the terminal of the line was still seven kilometers away from the consulate. In no time flat I was on another bus for another 10 cents, which dropped me right at the door. Unfortunately it was already 11:30 by then, and half an hour after they stopped accepting applications for visas that day.
Back to the city bus I got a free ride on a pickup truck, and then back onto the city bus, after having a drink and a nice tortilla lunch from one of the vendors at the bus terminal. The city bus, as on the way out, was very crowded. I remembered the lesson: never get on a crowded bus, because that is where the pickpockets get you. But I felt confident, knowing what to expect, and that I could prevent it. As I got pushed onto the bus by others from behind, I kept my handbag in front of me, and my left hand always at, or near my left front trouser pocket, where I keep my wallet. And it was always still there. Then after a while somebody asked me, probably to divert my attention, where I was going. At the next stop, as people where moving past, to get off, I felt again for my wallet, and it was gone. Suffice it to say, I did not recover it, although I mentioned it to a soldier next to me, and felt for it on the people trying to get off. To add insult to injury, not only did the thief get my wallet, which had only my Canadian drivers license, and the equivalent of about C$ 25.00 in it (with all the worthless paper money, one has to carry around here, a wallet cannot hold much), but he also must have had a good feel inside my handbag, because the wad of small bills in there (about another C$ 25.00) was gone too.
Anyway, the loss is nothing that hurts me very much, as I carry my money in all kinds of different places, so that I am protected for just such an occurrence. I have long since learned, not to carry credit cards in my wallet, when on a trip. What made it so unexpected was, that this happened in a so-called socialist country, where they pride themselves, that crime is no problem.
This town is really a disaster area. Far and wide there are no stores of any kind. One wonders where people do their shopping. I have walked two, three kilometers and hardly found anything, which would normally count for a store. You do see things being sold out of private residences, but there are no signs, and they are far and between. Apparently the government has forbidden, that the central area of the town is re-built, because of the high earthquake risk, lying over a fault zone. I suppose they are hoping, that the few remaining buildings die a natural death of normal disintegration, and then everything will be made into a big park. Addresses are also hard to find. There are hardly any street names posted, and certainly no house numbers. The hotel that I was first looking for yesterday was described as being 'one block below where the Hotel Nicaragua used to be'.
30 November 1988, Managua
Another day in this modern day city of ruins. I appeared at the Honduran consulate again bright and early, just about 15 minutes after opening time, and found already 16 people in front of me. Everybody had to wait outside the guarded compound in a thatched hut on the highway, until it pleased the staff, to start processing applicants at about 09:00. Meanwhile, somebody burned thrash in the compound with the thick acrid smoke drifting over those waiting. Then at nine a guard came over, and lined everybody up in the sequence they had arrived (so that nobody would jump his turn, I guess) and the applicants were led by threes and fours across the highway and into the compound. Once inside, it seemed more civilized. My turn was at 10:00, and I was told to return at 14:00 hours, to pick up my passport with visa.
So far so good, but what to do way out here in the country for four hours? I decided, there was enough time to make the long trip back, avoiding the pickpockets, and try to find the bicycle repair shop, run by some expatriates, which had been recommended to me yesterday. No problem there, one hour plus to go back to town, then another hour cruising the streets inquiring for 'Bikes not Bombs' on a ‘one-way street south of the corner called Las Palmas, behind a high wire fence'. First the guard would not let me into the gate, because they were closed between 12:00 and 13:00, it was now 11:57. But I persuaded him, as I could see white people inside, that I only wanted to leave my bike here, and return in the afternoon. Once inside, I was able to explain my problem (two bent links in my chain) in English, and obtain the assurance, that it would be fixed by 17:00 in the afternoon.
Then back up to the Honduran consulate. This time all transactions were made through a little vertical slot in the compound wall, much like the opening where from medieval fortresses they shot at the enemy. One was supposed to put in the slip, one had been given in the morning, and out came the passport. Mine was duly stamped with a visa for 90 days, and the little note attached to it said 'turista, hoy' (tourist, today). I suppose, if I had not been a dollar carrying tourist, I might have had to wait somewhat longer.
Then back again to change some more money, another wad three centimeters thick added to my now diminished stack, and then to the bike shop. This place is run by an American organization called 'Bikes not Bombs' with member groups in Canada and England. They collect old bicycles and ship them down here, as well as parts. In Managua they have this shop where they put together all these bikes, put them into shape, and then make them available to needy Nicaraguans (Nicas for short). Local Nicas are also trained in bike maintenance. In fact, the Managua shop will shortly be turned into a co-operative run by the present local employees, and the expatriates will move on to Leon, to start a similar shop there. It seems a real worthwhile effort. They certainly fixed my bike, by taking out the four damaged links. No new links had to be put in, as the chain was a trifle long to start with.
There was just enough daylight left then, to visit the real centre of the old city, the Parque Central, with the legislative buildings and the cathedral, the latter in ruins, and all surrounded by extended areas of vacant land interspersed with the odd building still extant and in use, and among this the monument of the freedom fighter with machine gun held high.
The manager of the bike shop had introduced me to another Canadian, Al Quinn, from Montreal, who is one of eight young film makers, commissioned by the French network of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation, to travel through the Americas, and make short films on different aspect of life in these countries. One of the films he had done todate covers the life of the Lancadones Indians of Chiapas, Mexico (shot in San Cristobal de Las Casas). Presently he is working on a segment contrasting Americans in Nicaragua, the official efforts of the U.S. government supporting the Contras, as opposed to the work of many private American groups, such as 'Bikes not Bombs', who try to nullify and abate the official policy. His work, and the work of the other seven filmmakers, is being shown on the CBC French network as part of the series: 'Course des Ameriques' on Saturday afternoons each week at about 17:00. His next project is on the history of the railway from San Jose to Puerto Limon in Costa Rica. Later he will be in Peru, Brazil and Venezuela.
By the way, we had a great dinner (you might say it was the first time I 'dined' on this trip). Three mariachis appeared, and offered their entertainment, so we split the cost of C$ 1.50 between the two of us, and had ourselves royally entertained with three songs of the Nicaraguan revolution. It is indeed very moving to be so close, in skin contact so to speak, with a real revolution, which is still fresh in people's minds. It reminded me of the heady days after Cory Aquino's victory in the Philippines. In a small way perhaps, I can now understand the enthusiasm a Norman Bethune, or those other international volunteers must have felt, who participated in the civil war in Spain in the Thirties. Truly history is in the making in this country. It can only be hoped, that this idealism, one encounters here so often (apart from the pickpockets), will translate in real terms to a betterment of life for one and all, and not gets squashed by the greed of the cliques in power as in Eastern Europe, unless all efforts come to naught through the policies of the Big Brother (Uncle Sam) up north.
There really are many positive things one notices here in official policy and practice, such as billboard advertisements encouraging mothers to feed their babies with mother's milk, a government newspaper 'Barricada' (editor Chamorro) with a surprisingly high intellectual standard, in my opinion substantially higher than that of the recently re-appeared opposition paper 'La Prensa', the editor also a Chamorro of the same family. One sees many simple people reading these papers including the world news, who in Toronto or Hamburg one might expect only to look at scandal sheets like the 'Toronto Sun' or 'Das Bild', with their 'Sunshine Girl' or similar lurid pictures.
Even the backs of the currency bills display messages of social justice. The difference between Nicaragua and say East Germany is, that here these exhortations and statements ring true, and are in good taste, where there they appear patently dishonest and unreal. This distinction the U.S. administration obviously is unable to make.
1 December 1988, near Ciudad Dario
Actually this is the morning after the first of December. Last night it was getting dark, and I had no light so the diary keeping had to wait till the next morning. I did have a bit of a tough day yesterday, having started late in Managua (09:30), and having to go farther than intended, I covered 87 kilometers. Most of that was in the level valley around Lake Managua, and much of this is cultivated in sorghum and sugar cane, but there is also a lot of scrub and swamp.
As I was passing the airport, I saw, what I thought was a familiar emblem on the tail rudder of one of the planes. I could not quite identify it right away, but then I thought it might be an Iranair aircraft. But what would a plane from Iran, of all places, do in Nicaragua. Later I had a chance to read the paper and yes, there was an article about the Iranair Jumbo jet, which had brought tons of relief goods as a gesture of solidarity between two revolutionary countries. Politics makes strange bedfellows!
I had a bit of lunch (greasy chicken) at Tipitapa, where there is supposed to be a malaria epidemic. Apparently well over a thousand people have died there of it recently, mostly children. Although I had not been taking my prophylactic pills, I was not worried, because I was not planning to spend the night there. Malaria bearing mosquitoes only fly at night, and it is only the females of the species which bite. By nightfall I was planning to be in the hills rather than the swamps.
And then the hills came. The highway started climbing steadily at a grade quite acceptable to my gearing. Only every kilometer or so I had to stop to catch my breath. Truck drivers and road workers cheered me on. In all I climbed about 500 metres in elevation until I reached the plateau, where I am now.
At a road intersection, where most of the buses stop, I had some of those refreshing local drinks, fruit juices with pieces of ice, sold in little plastic bags. Sure, they were not prepared under the most hygienic conditions, just water from the tap, or from the well; but by now I am virtually immune against the various bugs, which cause tourists diarrhea and similar ailments.
My destination was Puerta Viejas, where I intended to meet the Whitmore's, supposedly just having arrived there to work on a project for HABITAT. Even if they were not there yet, another worker by the name of Lynn (locally called Linda), another American, was supposed to be there. I had planned to spend the night there, and learn something about their work. Well, Linda was known there, but she had gone to another location, and was not expected back for a few days, so the local nurse told me, who lived next door.
What to do? I had no time to wait till she returned, so I decided to carry on another 18 kilometers to Ciudad Dario, where I thought there was a hotel. The sun was going down, but there was enough time to make it before darkness, if the road was reasonably level, which it was supposed to be.
But then, about five kilometers before getting there, and after having crossed several rivers, which promised suitable campsites, I decided to check my guide book to ensure the name of the hotel etc. Then I found, that I had misinterpreted the information, and the hotel was at Sebaco, 14 kilometers beyond Ciudad Dario. After learning that I stopped at the next river, and inquired at the finca there, whether there was a hotel or hospedaje at the next town, and if not, could I camp on their land next to the river. Yes, there was a hospedaje, but they did not remember its name, and yes, I could also camp here. So I decided to do the latter.
I was shown the best place to wash in the river and the spot where I could drink the water, was warned about snakes and then they left me alone. Actually the guy had seen me in Managua the day before with my bicycle, so I was not an altogether new and surprising sight to him. I did have a really restful night. The fact, that there was no supper, did not bother me at all, because after that greasy lunch I had felt rather full anyway, and had no desire for food.
So why did I start so late? I had been told, that Thursday was the day, when the local Americans had their weekly demonstration in front of the American Embassy, to protest their government's actions, and in particular the American economic embargo of Nicaragua. It was to start at 08:00, and I felt I could easily reach my destination, after having participated in that experience. So I duly showed up, and shot some video footage in front of the heavily guarded embassy which, in fact, looked like a penitentiary with heavy walls, and rolls of barbed wire on top of them. It really did look like a fortress.
I got there a little late, and missed most of the main speech, but saw all of the entertainment, a juggler, some jokes and some political songs. It was just a happy gettogether, and the soldiers standing in line keeping the demonstrators away from the gates enjoyed themselves too. My filmmaker friend was also there, interviewing one of the participants. There was an announcement about a Buddhist priest with some of his followers making a peace march to the Honduran border. I inquired about their itinerary from a lady, and although the dates coincide with my being in that area, I probably will not go there, as it is somewhat off my route. Talking to Americans here, I am surprised, how many share my opinions, while when at home, I almost feel isolated and out of touch with the mainstream of opinion. I guess, those who share my beliefs are few, and many of those do something about it, like coming here, and putting their money where their mouth is.
2 December 1988, Esteli
What should have been a hard slog, actually was not. I covered 67 kilometers. The first stretch was on level ground, and that was hard, as the headwind of yesterday had strengthened, and almost made me fight for balance today. The plain, on which Ciudad Dario and Sebaco lie, looks rich agriculturally with large fields of sorghum and rice in terraces. Some of the sorghum was ripe, blood red, and ready for harvest.
Then came the first ascent 200 metres up to La Trinidad, and soon after the second climb of 500 metres to the top of the ridge forming the watershed between the Caribbean and the Pacific at a total elevation of 1200 metres above sea level. I was reduced to cycling 300 metre stretches between breath catching breaks. At this time it started to rain, but only lightly, more like a mist. The last twelve kilometers were the reward for today's work, almost 500 metres downhill in elevation, and I arrived in this surprisingly lively town at 15:30.
After last night's spartan accommodation, I had promised myself to splurge today, and checked into the best hotel in this town of about 20000. I had to pay the most yet in Nicaragua (US$ 11.00), but it is a very good room with even a warm shower. After cleaning myself and doing some laundry, I took a stroll through town and whom do I see? Two other cyclists just having arrived from Honduras, and trying to check into a hotel. One from the U.K. and the other from Ireland, they happened to be together with a bus traveller from New Zealand.
Later we went together to eat, and to exchange our experiences. The cyclists had come through Honduras, which they thought very mountainous, in fact one of them had hurt his knee on bad roads in the rough country, which meant that they had to fall back on bus travel for part of their journey. The New Zealander had come through El Salvador. He said, that the whole of the country had been declared a military zone, and that there are military controls all over the place. He had been put in jail for four days, and thrown out of the country, because he had travelled in an area without the necessary permit by the military. Well, I shall see what I am going to do. I still have a couple of days to decide, which route I am going to take to get myself to Guatemala.
3 December 1988, Somoto
Now I am only 20 kilometers from the border with Honduras. The experience 'Nicaragua' is almost at an end. I already checked out with Customs in this little town of about 8000, while the remaining border formalities will be completed tomorrow morning at the actual border. An American in a car envied me my bicycle, because I went through Customs in less than half an hour, while he had to wait I do not know how long.
There was nothing too strenuous about today's 67 kilometers ride. I ended up at the same elevation as where I started, but of course, it was not all level in between. The hills here exhibit a peculiar angular, pyramidal appearance. Somebody, when asked what does the topography of Central America look like, crumpled up a piece of paper in his hand and said 'just like this'. And exactly like this was the landscape I travelled through today. At first there was quite a bit of downhill riding, as I followed a river valley. From time to time, there was a large agricultural establishment on the valley floor, where presumably vegetables were grown, utilizing the river water for irrigation. Then I had to cross another range of hills to bring me into a parallel valley.
Early this afternoon I heard some loud music, and saw a surprising sight. A stockade had been erected, and around the entrance there were tables, chairs and ornaments. Horses were tethered up, and a bunch of 'vaqueros' (cowboys) was sitting there with their five gallon hats drinking soft drinks, of all things. Apparently there was going to be a rodeo later in the day. Of course, I stopped, not for a soft drink, but for a beer, since I only had about eight kilometers left to go for the day. Some of the kids crowded around my table asking the usual questions, and would I stay longer and later ride a steer. No, I said, it is easier to ride my bicycle, at which they laughed.
It is quite cool up here in the evening at 900 metres elevation, cold actually. I guess I shall pull out my sleeping bag again tonight for a little more warmth, than what the single sheet provided at the hotel can provide. I shall be glad to be down in the plains again tomorrow, where it is warm. It will be interesting to see, how I shall get rid of my extra cordobas tomorrow, and if I can, how much I am going to lose on the deal. When I entered Nicaragua one week ago, cordobas sold at 2200 to the US. dollar. Three days ago in Managua the rate was 2500, and apparently today it is already 3000. Talking about galloping inflation!
I took another walk around town later, to see whether I could collect some information about changing my surplus cordobas, but without luck. I was stopped by one of the soldiers, who wanted to practice his English on me. He was putting in his year of compulsory service, and after that he hoped to finish his medical education. I guess, in the back of his mind was the wish to emigrate to the States or to Canada, because to him these countries seemed to be just like paradise, although he realized, that living costs were also very high there. I really did not have my mind on the conversation, as I was preoccupied with my own financial predicament. Anyway we exchanged addresses.