Moving On...

After some thought, I've decided to migrate this blog over to WordPress, mostly due to a desire for a slightly more professional layout.  As I'm still learning what I'm doing with the WordPress site, opinions and advice will be greatly appreciated!  Keep reading!

The new blog: http://bit.ly/FeelsLikeHome

An Eye-Opening Perspective

Some of you may or may not have heard about Oprah's trip to India.  If you hadn't, well, she filmed it and it's being aired on TLC.  I hadn't heard about this until one of my students from India (currently studying at my undergraduate college) sent me a link to an article on an Indian blog reacting to the first episode of the special.  Always curious to see what foreigners think of Americans parading around their land, I read the article.  As I read, I found myself becoming more and more dumbfounded by the way Oprah was purportedly reacting to Indian culture and to the Indians she met.  It made me want to curl up in my skin and die out of shame for this awful representation of our country.

Admittedly, I haven't seen the episode.  I don't have cable and I couldn't find it online (at least, not anywhere that wouldn't riddle my computer with viruses).  I did, however, find a few other articles discussing the rampant stereotypes portrayed in her series.  One in particular from ABC compares American with Indian reactions and, I'm sorry to say, the American reactions are more positive.

But, don't take this from me.  Read the side of the story given by another one of my students from India who is also currently studying at my alma mater.  He addresses not only the Oprah episode (which he did watch), but also what it's like to be a foreigner in America.  This will change how you think.

If you're interested in more related reading, this article from the APA discusses D.W. Sue's work with microaggressions, which he defines as being "everyday insults, indignities and demeaning messages sent to people of color by well-intentioned white people who are unaware of the hidden messages being sent to them."  As we discussed this in my Multicultural Issues class in fall of 2010, microaggressions can also be produced by anyone who benefits from a position of privilege, such as Oprah.  The key word there is "well-intentioned."  If you're familiar with the old adage, "the road to hell is paved with good intentions," then you can probably understand how someone can think they're saying the right thing, but because they're unaware of their own personal biases, actually end up inadvertently causing harm to the other person.  It's some of the most interesting, thought-provoking research I've come across during my time in grad school.  This class changed how I thought about a lot of things and I promise, if you read more about it, it will change you too.

Quieres Bailar? (Or, Why I Prefer to Go Dancing In San Juan)

As any female who's ever ventured out to a club will tell you, there's something about dancing that seems to make it okay for random males to attempt to grope you.  Maybe it's the modern day mating call, maybe it's programmed into their genetic makeup, I don't know.  They're persistent, too.  If you escape, they tend to follow.   This gets old fast and you wonder, "why won't they just let me dance?"  Because, if you're like me, you get really frustrated when someone throws off your groove with the rather uncreative dance moves that seem acceptable for many (not all) of the male persuasion.  

This is how I dance.  You can understand why I dislike being interrupted.

Before I proceed, I should disclaim that I'm sure there are females guilty of doing similar to what I'm currently accusing the male population of doing.   I also don't believe this is all guys.  There is a specific type of guy who goes out to clubs, gets hammered with a single purpose in mind (hint: dancing isn't that purpose), and doesn't respect either the bodies or wishes of those he accosts.  That is the guy I'm talking about.

So, you can imagine what I expected when Sara and I ended up back at the Iguana one night and found it had turned into a full-on dancehall.  Predatory hazards or no, I'm usually not one to turn down an opportunity to dance, so obviously we started bopping around.  Eventually someone came up to ask one of us to dance.  Except he actually asked and didn't grab.  Weirder still, when we declined, he left us alone.  Following this unexpected exchange, I started paying more attention to the dancers surrounding us.  There were dancers who fell into the category described above, but they seemed to be fewer and didn't pose a threat.  There were also knots of guys in tank tops with huge arm holes, backwards 80s style baseball caps and knock-off Ray Bans who jumped around exuberantly.  They posed a threat only to our overall physical health as they were falling into chairs, tables, and people without care.  And then there was a third group who could actually dance.  

"What?! Tell me more!" I hear you saying.

The trend among the Latinos (I'm not sure if they were Nica or otherwise) who wanted to dance with us seemed to involve the following steps:

1. Strike up a conversation, however stilted, due to my Spanish deficiencies
2. After a reasonable amount of time had passed, ask to dance.
3. If accepted, dance, but don't grab hold like she's a life raft right away.  
4. Dancing becomes more relaxed, but no violations of personal space ensue.

Also, they could dance.  It. Was. Awesome.  I don't think I've ever had so much fun dancing with anyone at any dance club ever.  We did salsa and a little bachata and a little hybrid.  There was one song that started and the guy I was dancing with got super excited and exclaimed, "samba?!"  I'm learning samba, so I was equally excited.  Obviously this style of samba was different from "competition" samba, but still incredibly fun.  This guy had been dancing with a beer in his hands at first, but then put it down because we were becoming pretty energetic.  We cleared a pretty solid space on the dance floor because we were moving all over the place and even attracted a small audience.  It was epic.  He was completely appropriate and didn't try any funny business - entirely a gentleman.  

A salsa dancing dog.  Family, can we talk about training Doogan to do this?

When the song ended and I thanked him for the dance, he returned the thanks and moved on to find another partner, instead of hanging on for song after song.  It was refreshing.

Obviously, they weren't all as respectful as that guy, but if you told them to go away, they took the hint for the most part.  There are exceptions to every rule, but it's nice to know that somewhere in the world they'll actually dance with you (none of this shuffling business) and respect your wishes.

I leave you with yet another gratuitous beach picture:

Right across the street from our hotel.

Next post:  The Belgian Who May Have Changed My Life

"Kind of...?"

29 June 2012
San Juan del Sur

If I ever surfed, I think I would look like this.

At the end of my last post, it had indeed stopped raining, so we began the discussion of food.  Courtney's stomach was a little unsettled, so it was decided that Sara and I would go in search of food, then return and go with Court to find food for her.  We ended up at a little place a few streets up called Banana Hamacs (took me a second) that had a simple, yet intriguing menu and a very relaxed atmosphere.  It was run by an Austrailian guy who was apparently living the dream.  Sara and I both ordered a Caribbean-style chicken wrap.  Unfortunately I couldn't get it without the vegetables, but I figured I would cross that bridge when I came to it.  The flavors were excellent - spicy and a little sweet.  The chicken was phenomenal.  The wrap was structurally unsound, so eating neatly was not an option.  The only real issue I had with the wrap was the sheer number of vegetables.  I like to think I could have handled a few, but for someone who is rather inexperienced and uncomfortable when it comes to this produce, the overwhelming amount of cabbage shreds, carrots, onions, and other unidentifiable things was extremely disconcerting.  You should, therefore, be proud to know that I did my best to power through and actually ate several bites with vegetables before it 1.) became too overpowering and 2.) disintegrated.  Both required the removal of said veggies.  As I extricated my chicken from the offending vegetables, I popped a piece of what appeared to be potato into my mouth.  It exploded with unexpected sweetness.  I froze, mid-chew.  Potatoes, last I checked, weren't sweet.  This was far more like... pineapple.  For the record, I still don't like pineapple.

San Juan by night

For Courtney's dinner, we walked down the street to the pizza restaurant on the beach.  We sat on the lower edge of their porch, closest to the sand.  There was a beautiful brown dog who kept furtively sneaking onto the porch and wandering around.  She clearly knew she wasn't supposed to be there.  At one point, the owner came out and shooed her away - not unkindly though, considering we'd already seen two people kick dogs earlier that day.  This stood in stark contrast to the leashed German Shepherd who had been brought out to dinner by his owners.

As we enjoyed Courtney's dinner, we were trying to figure out whether the Spanish music in the restaurant was live or recorded.  Since we were on a lower level, we didn't exactly have a great view of what was going on at the main level.  Our curiosity was answered when a young wiry guy with short hair and a single dread where a rat's tail would be (have I mentioned that rat's tails seem to be a trend here?) came around on his break to ask for donations for his performance.   We were running low on cash by that point, but dropped some money in his hat anyway.  He returned to our table on his second break to ask about a coin we recognized as a Sacajawea coin.  He'd never seen one before, so he was pretty happy to hear it was worth a dollar (about 23 cordoba).  Unfortunately, it was useless in Nicaragua but he decided to keep it anyway because it was kind of cool.  He then invited us to some bar down the street that would be playing live reggae and rock music later that night.  I didn't get the name of the bar and I couldn't tell if he said we should go because he was playing or just because he'd be there.  I should probably point out that he spoke mostly Spanish and bits tend to get lost in translation...

Back at the hostel, we became extremely goofy - laughing like hyenas for no apparent reason.  Once we pulled ourselves together, we attempted to concoct a plan for the night.  Courtney felt like it would be better for her if she went to bed early (this was a bummer), so Sara and I decided to wander back to the Black Whale for a little bit.  It was quiet when we got there, but soon heated up and a reggae band started playing.  At one point, we realized the musician from the pizza place was there.  He appeared to be there for social reasons and not because he was in the band, so there was that question answered. Sara and I were having an extremely entertaining time chatting (though it was hard to hear each other over the band) and people-watching.  An American surfer I recognized from the beach earlier in the day came up to us at one point and said, "you're kind of beautiful and you should come to the Iguana because that's the place to be and I'll be there."  Obviously we were blown away by this.  Except, wait, no.

Ah... no.

The musician from the pizza place came up to chat with us after that.  He spoke some English and while it was infinitely better than my Spanish, it was not a strength of his.  Add this to the fact that the band was loud and made it hard to understand even those who were not separated from you by a language barrier (by which I mean Sara) and you can imagine how the conversation went.  Regardless, we learned that he was originally from El Salvador and currently lived in Costa Rica (San Juan del Sur is about 45 minutes from the Costa Rican border).  He was in San Juan for work (music).  He said he'd studied anthropology in school, but there was no work in the field at the moment, which is why he's playing music for tourists in pizza restaurants.  He was amazed to learn that we had neither lighters nor ganja - are those things most Americans have?  Eventually he decided we should dance and after being pushed away from the table by Sara, I agreed.  It was really awkward at first because there was literally no one else on the dance floor.  He just started rocking out though, so I decided I really had nothing to lose and went with it.

Just like that,

Tune in next time for my analysis of my experiences going dancing in foreign countries versus America!

Kathi, Guest Blogger Extraordinaire

Oh hey, dear readers.  I did a guest post for this pretty sweet company called WomenCentric.  It's a list of 5 things I learned while traveling that I've found pretty relevant to the situations I've been in.

It's a pretty sweet opportunity.  Check it out!  The post is called 5 Things You Should Know About Traveling. 

Crabs Everywhere

I cut the last post in half because, as anyone who followed my India emails will tell you, I write a LOT in a single sitting.  Therefore, this picks up where the last one left off.

To backtrack just a little bit, after breakfast that first morning in San Juan, the owner's son informed us that his mother had accidentally put us in a room that was supposed to be reserved for a group of ten who would be arriving that day.  He was terribly sorry for the mix up, but would we mind switching rooms?  Now, mind you, our former room had a view of the ocean across the street.  We agreed anyway and went to investigate our new room.  While this room was a corner and had a window on the left wall, it did not have a view of the ocean (though we could easily see the ocean if we ventured out onto the balcony).  This was sad to us.  It also appeared a little more dilapidated than our original room.  Regardless, we settled in anyway and, as it turned out, that side window was key because the breeze appears to come from the hills, not the ocean.

The new room...

Following our excellent feast at the little yellow kitchen, the three of us headed back to the hotel for a quick pitstop.  Courtney decided to remain there because her sunburn was bothering her and she was tired, but Sara and I weren't quite ready to call it a night yet.  We wandered down the street and ended up at a bar called the Black Whale, which we both agreed reminded us slightly of the trance club/bar we went to in Goa, India (more on that later).  The place was colorful and open, with barstools and tables that looked as though they were cut from logs, a pool table, a foosball table in the very back, and a very eclectic crowd.  It was mostly outdoors (far too hot to be inside).  Sara and I settled ourselves at a high top near the entrance to the bar, about halfway down the patio.  It was a prime people-watching location.  As we worked our way through some beers, we discussed everything from traveling (must do more) to relationships (not now).  It was one of the best nights yet and definitely solidified my belief that we need to travel together more frequently.  

At one point, this guy came up to us and invited us to join him and his friends at their table  As he was clearly intoxicated, this was entertaining.  We learned his name and that he was Canadian, although his accent sounded different, almost Spanish.  We had fries coming to us though, so we were disinclined to relocate to another spot.  While he was talking to us, his friends got up to go play pool, so he told us we should join them for that.  We told him we'd "think about it" and he left.

And then he turned up at the beach today?  Awkward.  

Gratuitous beach picture

Our waitress at the Black Whale was funny as well.  We decided we were hungry around 10:58pm, and so called her over to order a side of fries.  She said (in Spanish) the kitchen was closed (and I understood her!) and pantomimed what happens when she asks the kitchen for food after that time.  From what I gathered, they get very angry and throw things.  It was hysterical.  However, she managed to get us fries anyway for which I shall be eternally grateful.

All that day it looked as though it was going to rain (obviously this did not stop us from going to the beach).  Around 3am, long after Sara and I returned from the bar, it finally did.  This is when we learned our roof leaked.  At first, I was annoyed by this and objected (silently), but then I realized it actually felt pretty good, so I put my Zune under my pillow and went back to sleep.  There isn't much you can do about those things at that hour of the morning anyway.  It was a pretty major storm, major enough that I had minor concerns about my impending doom (really though, what ISN'T scary at 3am?).  However, when I started getting tense, I asked myself whether this current storm was worse than the storm we experienced at Panisagar during our last week in India (that was intense: howling wind, rain everywhere, tornado, etc.).  Obviously it wasn't, so it was all good.

Our new, albeit slightly leaky room

Our second full day in San Juan was much the same as the day before: breakfast, shuttle, beach, shuttle, shower.  A routine I could get used to.  Sara and I befriended a taxi driver while we were wandering around San Juan in the morning, trying to see if a different beach could be an option for us.  His name was Louis and he was funny.  He also dropped his price really easily.  Unfortunately, we weren't haggling (had I been haggling, I doubt I would have been so successful).  He told us not to worry about anything because we would be "safe with him."  Oh, by the way, this was entirely in Spanish and not only was I able to comprehend enough to translate to Sara, I was able to respond!  SUCH A WIN.  

I actually felt bad we weren't going to use his taxi, but the beach we were really interested in, Playa Hermosa, cost $3 to get on anyway and we weren't yet convinced it was going to be a good enough beach day to warrant that.  

It did end up being a really nice beach day.  Courtney stayed mostly in the shade because I was worried about her burn and she was being smart about it.  There were also two people stung by stingrays that day - what??  Courtney was able to help out an English family whose son had been pretty badly stung.

Nice beach day.  Love the beach.

There was, in fact, a marked animal/crustacean presence at the beach that day.  On the shuttle to Playa Maderas, we noticed tons of brighly colored crabs covering the embankments, climbing in and out of holes and threatening to fight the truck as it rattled by.  When I say "brightly," I mean legs the color of fire, purple pincers, black bodies and yellow eyes.  I've never seen anything like it.  

Swiped from Google, but this is the crab.  It's also vaguely terrifying to google "crabs."  Just saying.

Later, around 3pm, there were hermit crabs everywhere on the beach.  The craziest thing is that they were all heading in the same direction.  It was absolutely bizarre.

Chased this little guy all over the place while I attempted to get a picture of him before he turned around and ran away again.  Success.

We took the 3:30p shuttle back to town and hung out at the hostel for a while due to a sudden storm that came out of nowhere and foiled our plans of watching the sun set, drink in hand.  I'm starving.  It has now stopped raining, so hopefully we can go find food...?

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!

Hasta Que Salga el Sol

("Hasta Que Salga el Sol" means "until the sun rises" and is also the title of a song I'm currently obsessed with.  Go forth, download, and dance.  You'll thank me.)


27 June 2012
roughly 8pm - Hotel Estrella, San Juan del Sur

Upon our arrival to San Juan, the chicken bus dumped us gringas (and one gringo backpacker) off in the the middle of the street and drove away in a cloud of dust.  I successfully asked for (and understood!) directions to the Barrio Cafe, where we were supposed to catch the shuttle to the Naked Tiger, the hostel we had booked for our stay in San Juan.  The shuttle, which ran every 2 hours, was at the Cafe when we arrived, but so full that there was hardly a hope of all three of us, plus our belongings, fitting on board.  We waved off the advancements of the taxi drivers promising to take us to the Naked Tiger ("for good price!"), deciding to have a leisurely lunch at the Cafe and catch the 2:10p shuttle instead.

Hotel Estrella.  I just realized I can see my relflection in one of the windows

While we were waiting for the shuttle (which took forever), we observed individuals in varying stages of hangover begin straggling into the queue.   That, coupled with what we'd heard about the Naked Tiger being a party hostel, plus its distance from the beach, made us rethink our game plan a little bit.  We rethought it a lot actually, since when the shuttle finally arrived, we chose to stay behind.  Instead, we wandered around a bit until we came across Hotel Estrella, which is apparently the oldest hotel in San Juan.  It is in varying stages of disrepair, but I like it.  It's also right across the street from the beach.  So close, in fact, that as I write this, I'm listening to the endless ebb and flow of the occean.

Oh, hi there, beach.

This hotel is a little dilapidated, but it has charm and is only $8/night for a three person room.  You can't hate on that, even if the bathroom happens to be downstairs and reminds me a little of some of the bathrooms we encountered in India (however, considering I've seen far worse bathrooms in America, this really isn't an issue). The floors are possibly original - stripped down, warped, gray planks - and the stairs are narrow and appear to have been worn down by decades of visitors climbing up and down.   

The second floor.  That sink is where we washed our faces, etc.

Note the depressions on the steps.  So much more noticeable in person.

Not my loofah.

Toilet/Shower hallway

The only actual problem thus far appears to be the fact that we're without a fan.  This may prove problematic as I'm currently wearing as little as possible without risking indecency and am still overheating.  It's like being in India during one of the power outages:  the air is still, thick, heavy, and oppressive.  The only difference is that we have power.

On an unrelated note, my shoulders are rather sore from ziplining yesterday.

Once we got settled at Hotel Estrella, we put on our bathing suits and headed straight across the street to the beach.  The sand on the harbor beach is really more like packed dirt and less like the sand we're accustomed to.  The water was warm and a little bit gritty, thanks to all the sand it stirred up,  After I submerged myself, my face had a fine layer of grit on it for the rest of the day.  We eventually retreated back from the water to some beach chairs that were set up in front of one of the restaurants to have a few beers and watch the sun set.  We're very romantic.

Beach restaurants with beach chairs need to become a thing here.

There was a little girl of about 3 years old running around near us as we sat there.  She ran back and forth from the ocean to where she was playing in (and occasionally licking) the sand/dirt.  She also befriended a random man and his son (who appeared to be about the same age as her).  She was completely unfazed by where her parents were in location to her, by the energetic game of soccer being played by roughly 25 teenage boys on the beach near her, or by the fact that strangers were around her.  I was in awe of the amount of freedom her parents were giving her and am still torn by whether or not I think that's a good thing.

I really like how this picture came out

While we were on the beach earlier, Sara and I were talking about how much this place reminds us of India.  I hypothesized that this is because I, at least, think I'm somewhat subconsciously looking for an experience that recreates what we had there, but which I'm obviously not going to find on a one week trip to Nicaragua.  India was an authentic experience because we had time and connections, two incredibly integral pieces to successfully encountering and assimilating to a culture.  We were able to immerse ourselves in a dramatically different culture because we had those things.  Right now, we have only a week and no connections.  It's much harder to have a truly authentic experience when you don't have the time to learn the area you're in and become familiar with the subtle nuances that tourists tend to miss as they pass through.  If I want to enjoy this trip, I need to accept that right now, I am a tourist.  It would, however, be really nice to at least experience true Nica food however, rather than the imitation (or worse, American/Italian food), which I've been trying to avoid.

Feedback and a Song

In order to become a successful travel writer, there are things I will need to know.  For example, what am I doing that works?  What's driving you crazy?  Is my writing style too formal/informal?  Could things be more clear?  Is there too much detail?  Is the detail in the right place, or do you find me talking too much about meaningless things?

The more data I can get, the better I can make this, and the closer I can come to achieving this crazy little pipe dream of mine.

I leave you with a song recommended to me by a waitress at a coffee shop in Managua that I'm currently obsessed with:

The song is called "Arroyito" (meaning "little creek") and it's from a Colombian artist called Fonseca.  He's singing about this person who's left him and, because they're gone, he no longer feels light in his soul and everything is terrible.  He only wants this person to return so that they can accompany him for life.  

Obviously I had the internet help me translate that as my Spanish isn't quite that good.  Yet.

In Which I Leave Granada, Ride a Chicken Bus (or Two) & Brag About Being on a Beach

27 June 2012
4:37pm - San Juan del Sur; more specifically, the beach.

There is a man with a live squirrel on his leg walkign down the beach right now.  A live squirrel.  On what appears to be a shoestring leash.  Simultaneously bizarre and enthralling.

Life is good.

The sunset right now is gorgeous, by the way.  Did I mention I'm sitting on a beach?  With a beer?

There's a lot I like about this picture.   Side note: only ONE of those is mine.

Returning momentarily to Granada, we went for dinner after our return to the city from the volcano & ziplining adventure.  After dinner, we did some souvenir shopping in the square in front of the cathedral, then returned to the main streeet to find  somewhere to hang out for a little while.  Having heard a lot about O'Shea's, an Irish bar, from both our guidebook and people we'd met, we decided to give that place a shot. 

Very multicultural.

 I accidentally ordered the three of us three 40s of Tona, the Nicaraguan beer, which I guess is how we knew we were off to an interesting start.  Sarah and Roisin, the British and Irish girls (respectively) who were also in our hostel, ended up joining us, as did two other girls from the hostel who we hadn't met yet.  We befriended Tom, the owner, a seventy-something Irish expat who one day decided to move to Nicaragua and open a bar, who told us to "forget the children" and volunteer at his bar when we returned to Nicaragua.  I haven't yet ruled that out as a possibility.  While we were sitting there, a group of teenage Nica boys set up a stereo in the street and began doing the fiercest breakdancing I've ever seen.  It was incredibly impressive.  Once they'd finished that, they moved into a perfectly choreographed Michael Jackson routine.  I'm fairly certain they were good enough to potentially knock out any competition in one of those reality talent shows.  

The next morning, we were woken around 6am by what could have been sporadic gunshots or fireworks.  I chose to believe the latter and went back to sleep.

Regardless, we were up by seven, packed by eight, and checked out by nine.  We said goodbye to Gerry and made our way to the bus station.  We wandered through a chaotic, smelly, crazy market that reminded me powerfully of Bartela in Agartala.  I desperately wanted to poke around, but we were on our way to the chicken bus.  We navigated successfully through the market, eyeing various breads and tempting street foods on display, but got a little sidetracked when we were supposed to turn for the bus station.  Fortunately, we were guided in the right direction by a wiry little man yelling, "RIVAS! RIVAS!" at us and another backpacker who also appeared confused.  Rivas was the city where we'd be switching busses to get to San Juan del Sur.  How the little man knew where we were going, I'll just never know (sarcasm - San Juan is a pretty popular destination).   Our guide led us to the chicken bus (so named because occasionally people will use the bus to transport livestock, such as chicken), which is a retired American school bus.  

Chicken bus.  Image swiped from Google.

You could still see the signs at the front of the bus that were clearly meant for school children ("Don't Lose Your Riding Privileges").   

Interior of the chicken bus.  The guy on the left was the other backpacker who was lost with us.

The seats were worn down and springy - certainly less than comfortable - but the exterior of the bus was brightly colored and no two busses looked the same.  There were far more backpackers on our bus than we anticipated.  They didn't appear to be American and left us at Rivas, so apparently were not heading on to San Juan either.

The Rivas bus station was a crazily chaotic, bustling, overwhelming experience.  Hopping off the back of the bus (kind of like a fire drill), we were instantly accosted by cab drivers, rickshaw drivers and bus assistants yelling backpacker buzzwords like, "San Juan! Good price! San Juan! San Juan!"  

Rivas bus station.  Also swiped from a Google image search

Amidst the chaos, I attempted to locate our bus so we could start moving like we had a plan.  The only bus going to San Juan that I could see was clearly packed to the brim and didn't look like a viable option.  One of the crowd around us, who ended up being a bus assistant, captured my attention by yelling in my face about the San Juan bus.  Nice.  So, I asked him where the bus was and he indicated that we should follow him.  Deciding to back out if this suddenly got sketchy, we followed him across the bus station, through the crowd, and to an empty dock, where he told us to "Espera."  Wait.  The bus was coming and would be there in five minutes.  So, we waited and the bus came.  I thanked the guy who had helped us and we climbed on board to await departure.  As we waited, vendors climbed on and off the bus, hawking everything from food (we couldn't help it, we bought some biscuits.  Unfortunately, they were unimpressive, but we didn't think we were ready for the chicken, tortilla & rice in baggies just yet.) to plastic cups to music to boxers.

Towards the end of the trip from Rivas to San Juan del Sur, someone put in a DVD of music videos into the TV at the front of the bus.  They were easily the most absurd things I have ever seen - and definitely filmed in the 80's.  Every member of the band was wearing fringe, cowboy hats, and brightly colored cowboy suits.  The lead singer continually cast himself as the hero in the plots of the videos and was either continually broken hearted or breaking hearts while dressed as a cowboy - always with a white hat.   I tried very hard to find a picture of this, but Google searches involving keywords like "1980s, latin band, cowboy hat, fringe" don't really turn up anything useful.

The San Juan adventures will begin on Thursday.