The van/bus stood tall in the airport parking lot, made even taller with the 800 lbs. of donated goods stuffed into duffels lashed to the top rack. The van size was ideal to hold the entire crew inside, so I was looking forward to getting to know the rest of the group a little better. The fifteen of us settled in for a three hour overland journey to our coastal destination of Playa Gigante. We were told to expect roads of decreasing quality as we forged south from the sprawl of Managua towards the Pacific near the Costa Rican border.
It is somewhat unimpressive to travel in a new place in the dead of night. Nicaragua, after all, is prized for its natural beauty. The darkness here is thick and enveloping. Streetlights are not a priority in a poor country, as is any general illumination. Lit by a half moon, flashes of the countryside are revealed through broken clouds and spots of rain. Faint silhouettes of volcanoes are the only distant objects.
On the outskirts of Masaya, Dave Russian, our host, had set up a late dinner at a typical eatery, serving up platters of barbecued meats and vegetables. “What is this?” and “Have you tried these?” gave way to “Oh that’s good!” and “Damn I’m full” washed down by the national beer, Toña. Lots and lots of Toña.
First Dinner in Nicaragua
Back on the bus, true to expectation, the road began to degrade and narrow. The van hurtled down the road when possible making good time, the pronounced darkness broken by flashes of naked, cold, white halogen bulbs that seemed to illuminate only a few feet in any direction. But then a few doglegs in the town of Tola sent us down a dark dirt road for the last 18 km. stretch of the journey, “Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride,” someone insisted.
Prior to this, the mood in the bus was as to be expected after a big, well-lubricated meal. An arbitrary soundtrack of ‘80s synth-pop, Lionel Ritchie ballads and a karaoke-butchered Survivor’s “Eye of the Tiger” buoyed the mood of the bus as did the continued presence of our newly-befriended acquaintance, Toña. Some succumbed to the weariness of a long day’s journey, while others continued boisterous conversations about travelling, food, our schedule; all tinged with anticipation. Well after midnight, as the bus began negotiating the dirt road, the mood began to sober a bit as we watched the driver begin to deftly ford washouts and ephemeral streams caused by a heavy rain some four days prior. Some were simple rivulets, some were more flowing, but the driver, in every case, would pause the van, assess and tack the bus accordingly, followed by our cheers for the driver’s bravado in the face of Mother Nature. Until we reached Il Lago Grande.
The next half hour is a comedy that will only someday be truly appreciated. Lit only by the van high beams, Dave, Greg and the driver waded into the lake to plot a path through the muddy water to the continuation of the road some thirty feet to the right. Eric and Zach stood lakeside to advise, while Mario, Dale, David, Rachel and I hung outside the van. A bit of frustration crept in, no doubt propelled by being only about a mile from the end of our journey. Greg, standing in the middle of the lake, insisted we could make the crossing. The driver fretted about the low position of his alternator that would die in the deep water. Some suggested Dave head down to his house and pick up the four-wheeler and transport the group and all our goods down the road piece by piece. Dale wanted to highjack the damn bus and drive it across, come hell or high water. Literally.
The final solution? Lighten the load! All the menfolk off the bus! Off with shoes and socks. We waded through the muddy water and rocky lakebed as the van gunned, hesitated and charged across successfully, the sound of the front bumper hitting a submerged rock giving the only concern. The cheers were more halfhearted this time. The triumph of fording Il Lago Grande, mixed with the fatigue of a long days travel and discomfort of muddy feet did me in. Within twenty minutes we were at our forest hacienda and I collapsed into the bed, lullabied by the insistence of the crickets and cicadas and the drone of the air conditioner.
I don’t recall dreaming last night. I was so tired. But I can’t imagine any dream more ridiculous than last night’s Wild Ride.
Morning in Playa Gigante
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