Solo Una?

29 June 2012
sometime in the early afternoon - Playa Maderas, San Juan del Sur

Signs to the beach

I was all nice and caught up on my writing, but then I got lazy yesterday.

After watching the sun set on the 27th, we went to the Iguana, a bar recommended to us by the other people staying in our Granada hostel.  Their quesadilla de pollo was excellent and our waiter was funny, in a dry sort of way.  At one point, I had to ask if they accepted dollars (I'm not sure if that's a sign of globalization or of how touristy certain areas are. Or both.), so I flagged him down and said, "tengo una pregunta..." ("I have a question...") because I'm never sure how to preamble questions in a foreign language.  I always feel like I need to preface questions with a statement.  He replied, "solo una?" ("just one?").  Fresh.  I didn't think I'd been asking THAT many questions...

We enjoyed a leisurely dinner and a couple cervezas on their 2nd floor deck overlooking the harbor before deciding to return to the hotel for a little siesta.  As previously mentioned, it was so ungodly hot in our room that we all had trouble sleeping.  It was hard to rally again after the nap, but rally we did.  I always try to keep a mental voice in my head that says, "YOU'RE IN A FOREIGN COUNTRY, GET OFF YOUR ASS AND DO SOMETHING!" whenever I'm feeling lazy.  I think it goes without saying that some times this is harder than others.  Fortunately, I travel with friends like Sara who are able to verbalize this idea and actually get me moving again.

Our original post-nap plan was to head further down the main street to a bar that promised reggae, Latin & jazz music (what a combination), but we ultimately decided that was a little out of our comfort zones, what with it being dark and in an unfamiliar location.  Therefore, we ended up back at the Iguana.  This is apparently a gringo bar.  The others werent' in love with the Iguana and, admittedly, there wasn't really anything too special about it, aside from the fact that I enjoyed watching people from different countries coming together.  People watching is one of the best parts of traveling.  I would have liked the bar to play more Latin music and less hiphop, but there wasn't really any dancing anyway (except for a rather awkward group of three).  I'm dying to do some bachata/salsa/chacha now though!

We stayed til Ladies' Night ended (free drinks til midnight - I didn't hate it), then headed home.  Our room was much cooler by that point, fortunately.  I woke up to the sun pinkening the hills on the other side of the harbor (we faced west).  All I had to do in order to see this was lift my head three inches off the pillow.  It was gorgeous.  I could get used to seeing the ocean first thing every morning.

Aside from the fact that it's not dawn at the time of this picture, this is the exact view from my window.

Hotel Estrella offers free breakfast which, on top of being only $8/person/night, makes it a pretty sweet deal.  Although the coffee was Nescafe (a tragedy - especially since I learned at the coffee plantation that Nescafe is made with what doesn't get into your quality bag of coffee.  Nasty.), I became quite attached to the pancakes.  After breakfast, while the other two went to prep for the beach, I went poking around the town for a shuttle that would take us to a beach for cheaper than what the hotel offered.  Due to high gas prices, the trend among most shuttles in the area seemed to be a five person minimum.  The hotel followed this concept and told us that if we could find 5 people, a shuttle to the beach would cost $5/person, totaling $25.  If we couldn't find two more people, then we would have to make up the difference ourselves.  So, I wandered.  I had an interesting exchange (en Espanol!) with a taxi driver outside a Peruvian restaurant, but as he was charging a similar price, I decided to keep moving.  I eventually came across another hostel called Casa Oro, a hostel with a big focus on surfing, where they offered a beach shuttle for $5/person.  Sweet.  I signed us up and went to gather up the others.

The bars across the sides make it totally safe.
(picture swiped from Courtney)

The shuttle that would be taking us to Playa Maderas (Maderas Beach) was essentially a pickup truck with bars up the sides, a canvas roof, and two benches perpendicular to the axles for passengers.  It should probably go without saying that there were no seatbelts.  The trip to the beach thoroughly rattled every bone in my body and possibly shattered my tailbone, especially once we left the paved roads.  However, it also gave  us a broader perspective on how the natives of San Juan lived.  Many of the homes were arranged in a similar style to what we experienced in our region of India:  cement cottages with compounds where animals and bikes were kept and cooking was done.  You could see the smoke rising from kitchen fires and smell dinners being prepared as you rattled by.  I found myself seriously wanting to stay in a cottage in one of the little villages and really become a part of the community.  Had someone offered me a teaching position, I would have been hard pressed to turn it down (I'm fairly certain the only reason I returned to America was the leadership trip I chaperoned earlier last week).  I love traveling, but I feel like an idiot as a tourist.  When you're a tourist, you see a carefully constructed facade.  You see what they want you to see and it paints beautifully over the cracks, over the issues, over real life.

Just rattlin' our bones on the shuttle
(picture by Courtney)

The beach we went to, Playa Maderas, was a vast improvement over the harbor beach.  The water was clean, clear, and the waves were huge, which is probably why the surfers seemed to like it so much.  It's tucked away in kind of an indentation on the coast, almost like a cove, I guess.  You can see mountains (volcanoes?) in the distance.  The water was refreshing, but warm enough to make me question my ability to readjust to the harsh Atlantic.  The whole place is absolutely surreal.  I'm devastated that we're leaving tomorrow.  I suggested to Sara that we come back here after taking Courtney to the airport (it's only a 2hr drive, after all).  I was only half kidding.

Playa Maderas

One of the surfers who was at the beach today looked like Jesus.  He was also  just about as ripped as certain portrayals of Jesus are.  At one point he laughed and looked identical to this:

Doppleganger.  I kid you not.

Set back on the edge of the sand was a little beach bar where we went to catch a break from the sun.  It's a really nice feeling to be able to sink your toes into the sand while sipping on a cold beer.  It's a less nice feeling when you casually run your hand through your hair and find something that is large, unidentifiable, and clearly doesn't belong.  It's worse when you find out that the object was a large beetle that your hair tried to eat.  My hair tried to eat a beetle.  Who knew I had a Venus Flytrap growing on my head?  My hair is a menace.  But, life goes on.

Due to ominious clouds in the distance, we opted to catch the 3:30pm shuttle back to San Juan.  Back at Casa Oro, we decided to sign up for their Saturday shuttle to Managua as it seemed to be the cheapest and safest option.  Frankly, we would probably have been fine taking the chicken bus and navigating our way to the hostel from the bus station, but sometimes one must pay for convenience.

Dinner that night ended up being at Dorado's, the beachside bar that had supposedly offered reggae, Latin & jazz the night before.  I wasn't too hungry when we arrived, so I chose not to order food right away.  I was glad of this when Courtney's quesadillo de queso (is that redundant?) arrived - it was bland and unappetizing.  We stayed anyway until well after the sunset, drinking and chatting.  It was a beautiful sunset.  There really isn't anything quite like watching the sun set over the ocean in a foreign country.  I take that back, America has some pretty beautiful sunsets as well.  Nothing beats the combination of the beach and the sunset.

Dorado's

But, I digress.  After the sunset, Sara & I were finally hungry, but craving something other than what Dorado's offered.  We really just wanted authentic Nica food, so we decided to wander off the main drag, which caters predominantly to tourists, and found a cozy little place called Cocina Ixaca (? totally made up that spelling) a few streets up where they spoke no English.  The menu was on a whiteboard and consisted of a list of various methods for preparing "pollo" ("chicken"), "lomo" ("pork"), and "res" ("beef").  The quotation marks are theirs.  The interior was a small, brightly painted yellow room with four large tables, a sectioned off kitchen, and a girl sleeping in the corner.  Additionally, there was a gecko (I realize they are not actual geckos - this was what we started calling similar lizards in India) on the ceiling and the occasional large bug scurrying up the wall.  Obviously, Sara and I were in heaven.  

Best. Dinner. Ever.

My Spanish was not good enough to translate everything the waitress said, so we kind of ordered blindly.  Pollo de plancha, I learned, is essentially just grilled chicken (that was Sara's order).  I ordered pollo de jalapeno, which was excellent.  The dishes came as a full plate of the specified meat (chicken, beef, or pork), rice and beans, tortilla, and what appeared to beets and tomatoes over either coconuts or radishes.  I'm proud to say I at everything except the latter.  It was easily the best meal we'd had in Nicaragua - so real and exactly what we were looking for.  The waitress sat down at the end of our table while we were eating and started fanning herself.  I caught her eye and mimed that we agreed that it was hot.  She laughed and started fanning us with the menu in her hand.  Hooray for bonding across language barriers!