Granada

The cab pulled into Granada late Friday afternoon, just as the sun was sinking over the jagged horizon of the volcanoes to the west.  Bouncing around the cobblestone streets in a constant fight for right-of-way with horse-drawn trailers, tourists and the occasional Toyota Hilux, we eventually found Hotel Con Corizon.   After checking in,  I left my bags in my room and headed out to explore the 500 year old colonial city.

The central square felt relatively subdued for a Friday night,  save for a few groups of fellow gringos and a handful of street vendors.  Semana Santa,  a week-long holiday celebrating Nicaraguan's resilience, assaults of Tona's (the local beer) and cheap rum, the week before had apparently taken the wind out of their sails.  The streets were vacant and the restaurants empty,  rather fitting for my last night in Nicaragua I mused.

Emptying my pockets and hunting around in my camera bag, I collected the last of my Nicaraguan Cordobas in my left hand.  "That's a nice dinner," I mumbled to myself as I pulled another wrinkled 200 note from my coin pocket.   365 Cords.  That works out to be about 15 bucks, I estimated.  With no sense of urgency,  I wandered the streets looking for a dinner spot.

 My attention was heightened by the knowledge that at 7:15 the next morning,  I would be on a plane back to the states. 

Hand painted signs.

These buildings were built long before electronics.

Double parked.

Scooter.

For whom the bell tolls.

Note the string bike lock.

Garden.

2012,  could be 1972.

After sticking my head inside a handful of cafes,  I eventually I settled on small restaurant with a garden in the middle.  I ate by myself and listened to the conversations of the other travelers.  A group of middle-aged women discussed their trip to a nearby organic coffee plantation. "Tourist trap," I grumbled.  Two recent high school graduates assured each other of the importance of a gap year.  Probably not a bad thing.  My steak came quickly, and I tipped with the remainder of my Cordoba coins.

Even though my flight didn't leave until the next morning,  my mind was already elsewhere, ready for the next leg of my journey.

Hera are some more links.

Granada (Facebook),

Twitter.

Siesta

Out of delayed frustration, I rolled over and brushed  a gallon of sand out off the cot with a flick of my forearm.   Enjoying the newfound smoothness of the unfitted white sheets, I adjusting my head on the pillow and studied the knots on the plywood ceiling.

Slowly my eye lids drooped and I dozed off.

My watch beeped, indicating a change of the hour.  2:00 PM.  Still three hours until low tide and it was hot as fuck outside, too hot, I thought to myself.  Through the screen window,  top 40 hits from yesteryear blared on an over worked set of outdoor speakers.  Investigating, I leaned up and peered out at group of European and Australian travels smoking cigarettes and engaging in some heated conversation.  The thick accents,  distance, and Lupe Fiasco thumping in the background made it hard to deduct the subject. That Dutch chick sure was steamed.   Perhaps they're debating their favorite Dubstep DJ I chuckled to myself.  They love that shit.

Rolling over on my stomach I put the pillow over my head.  Still more time to Siesta.

Here are some more links,

Gigante (Facebook),

Changing Tide (ART).

Changing Tide

 The Toyota Yaris bounced down the one lane road through the barren farm land.  My tshirt, saturated with gringo sweat, stuck to the wooden beads covering the passenger seat  despite the frantic efforts of the overworked air conditioner.  Two surf bags secured to the top with nylon straps, accentuated every pothole with a creak and grind of sun worn paint.   The cab driver, unfazed by the frequent pigs and log sized ruts in the road,  focused his attention on sorting through the hundreds of songs on his USB powered stereo.  Skipping through tracks that seemed about as similar as houses in a Phoenix suburb, he picked one and let it play through.

"How many Kilometers did they the say it was from Rivas?" I asked Cris in the backseat.

Looking back from the window, "I'm not sure,  cant be more than 40," Cris said with a tone of calming indifference.

"We must be getting close now."

A few hundred feet ahead, a Mercedes flat bed truck crested the hill with a cloud of dust and whir of a powerful diesel engine.  Adhering to the nautical term,  "Might has right,"  our cab pulled off to the side.  As the truck bounced by,  I noticed the logo of an aspiring golf course/resort painted on the door.

"Mucho trabajo,"  the cab driver said pointing in the general direction of the truck as he shifted from first to second.

Cris and I nodded in agreement.

"This road is sure getting a lot of use," I said, making mental note of the thick layer of dust covering the trees within twenty feet of the road.

"Yah,  the richest family in Nicaragua is building a huge resort out here.  It's a ten year project.  They want Americans and Euros to buy places,"  Cris said, maintain his gaze out the window.

"Jesus. When did they start?"

"Two years ago, I think.  About the time we first came down here."

"Changing tide, I guess."

Point of View.

Transport.

Hammocks.

Siesta time.

Sunset glass off.

The quiver.

Handmade.

Travelers.

Heading back.

The local quiver.

Despite the commotion happening a few miles inland,  the fishing town seemed sleepy in the mid day heat. Fisherman tended to their nets and maintained their outboard engines under the shade of corrugated fiberglass roofing.  On the other side of the street, at the lone cafe, a handful of sunburnt surfers  drank iced coffee and enjoyed the bounty of satellite internet from the comfort of a few hammocks.   Time felt still,  as if everyone was waiting for an inevitable change.

"It wont be like this in a few years," I said to Cris.

"No, no it wont."

Here are some more links,

Gigante (Facebook),

(Twitter). 

Cris

I checked my watch.  Ten minutes to the T since the last time I looked and still 45 minutes to mid tide.  Closing my eyes,  I pushed off the ground with my right foot using the same attitude as if addressing a stray dog.  The hammock creaked violently.

"I can't take this any more,"  I said sitting up in the midday heat.  "I'm getting in the water."

"Patience, patience.  Give it another hour or so," Cris responded from a chair some 10 feet away.  Keeping his attention transfixed on cleaning the sand from a small sea shell with a pliers and needle, he continued, "the tide's still too high,  it will be all closeouts."

"I know, but this is killing me.  I can hear them breaking,"  I said grabbing my Fish from the rack and haphazardly wrapping the leash around the board's keel fins.

"I'll see you out there then."  Cris looked up from his afternoon work with a sheepish grin, conveying at the same time both his disapproval and support of my eagerness.

I first met Cris in the spring of my senior year at the very same beach in Nicaragua. Escaping the cold New England winter, two close friends and I cut class for a week and headed down for some surfing.  Cris introduced himself within 10 minutes of us arriving at the beach.   Over the next week and a half,  we made fast friends.

Cris's path to happiness contrasted with the one presented to me from elementary school on.  After serving in the Navy during the Vietnam war,  he worked for 35 years as the custodian of the Watsonville Post Office in central California.  During his time at the Post Office,  he took one class per semester at the local community college, studying topics from math to dance.  He surfed when he could and used his vacations for backpacking trips exploring the mountains of California.  Taking advantage of an early offer for retirement,  Cris had recently focused his energy back towards surfing and creating art in various mediums.  On a whim, Cris headed to Nicaragua for a month long trip by himself after seeing a show about the break on Fuel TV.

I grew up in a world where the path to happiness was an impatient focus on achieving financial and creative success.  At my college,  a small liberal arts school in Maine, my peers groomed themselves for careers as doctors, lawyers and investment bankers.  I wasn't above this pressure, and before I stepped foot on campus my senior year,  I already had a design job lined up at Ralph Lauren in NYC.  

Cris's patience and appreciation of surfing, meeting new people and enjoying the outdoors forced me to reevaluate my expectations.  It didn't happen overnight, nothing worthwhile does.

The following winter,  I took off a week from work and flew down from New York with my younger brother to meet up with Cris and catch some waves.  Once again, Cris's perspective was an eye opener compared to the cut-throat culture I was surrounded by in New York.  Two months after returning back to New York,  I started the process to leave my job.

Mark Twain once said that, “Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness..."  I'm not sure if Cris knows this quote or not, but he certainly embodies the ethos behind it.

By the time Cris made his way down the beach with his fins and body board and paddled out,  I was worn out from battling closeouts, just as he had predicted.  His timing couldn't have been better.  The waves shaped up and started breaking off the sandbars.   For the next three hours we took turns catching waves.  Cris did most of the wave riding and I did most of the paddling.  Maybe next year I'll wait the extra 45 minutes.

Here are some more links,

Last Minute (Facebook).

 Phil took these water flicks.