I woke up at six o clock. The room was dark. A tiny stream of pale white light barely crept through the blinds illuminating the four twirling fans attached to the ceiling. I was in bed siete. There was little clue as to with whom I was sharing the room, only traces of faint British accents mumbled and echoing in the hall outside the door as I drifted off to sleep the night before. I was eager to get a move on and take in the city in the early dawn hours.
I climbed down from my bunk. I felt dirty from a long day of traveling. My cab ride was pleasant and easy from the airport. I paid a premium for it, but it was near dark when the plane landed and the thought of traveling in the wrong direction to get to the bus station in Managua was more than I was willing to deal with. The cab driver and I made small talk in a mixture of equal parts broken Spanish and English. I caught the following - his intense like of former president Bill Clinton, he has a wife and two children, and he enjoys the sport of baseball. Muy excelente.
I opened a large creaking door that led to a patio. The sun was starting to filter in, and a mellow breeze bounced gently off the walls. I turned the handle of the shower and doused myself in a nice cool stream of water. The cacophony of a small orchestra of birds permeated the air. I wondered what exactly I was doing. Only one way to find out.
I threw on some shorts and a t-shirt and walked out the door of the hostel. I took only my wallet and camera. I left my backpack on the bed with all of my possessions in it. The girl at the desk asked if I was staying another night. I was unsure.
The wandering began. I took photographs everywhere I walked. I found a variety of places to post up and people watch. Two guys moving a refrigerator, dogs, birds, decaying churches, children on their way to school - the typical moving and vibrant mosaic of life I observe in all travels south.
I made my way down to the lake shore. There was a strong onshore breeze accompanied by a steady sets of waves. I hung a right. I was getting farther and farther away from the hostel, and I started to think it might be smart to go back and grab my pack. I ignored the urge and walked onward. I passed into the official tourist district of the city of Granada. Someone forget to tell the other tourists because I was the only one there. I walked passed an enormous display of playground equipment. The first sets were metal. They were colorful with hints of rust and a few holes here and there. I took note of one large metal slide with a hole big enough for a small child right in the middle. I stopped for a ride on an old swing. The chains creaked as I swung in the breeze and stared out at what the locals call the sweet sea.
A walked on. A short man approached and began a conversation. He soon raved of all the lake had to offer and would not stop speaking about las Isletas. He offered to rent me a kayak and show me.
Onward we wandered. Now not alone, but with my new companion who sat sideways on his bicycle and skipped his feet to propel himself down the road as he rambled on in a steady stream of Spanish, only half of which registered. He was a rotund little man, who wore a purple t-shirt and blue jeans which, try as they might, could not seem to stay positioned above the rear view.
We walked down empty streets into a large canopy sitting near the lake. The canopy was fifty feet high, constructed of metal I-beams and covered with palm fronds. He procured a bottle of water and opened a metal gate so I could peer at a menagerie of turtles with a small crocodile nestled in their midst. He disappeared for a moment, only to return by water paddling a large yellow sea kayak. He also had a blue whitewater kayak. He had two life jackets which we did not wear. He used his as a cushion for his back. I stored mine in the cargo area of the stern and rested my camera on top.
Into the lake we paddled. I thought of the phrase I often amused my students with when I was taking them kayaking on the Potomac- when you do not know what to do, go kayaking and see what happens.
It was a glorious morning. He explained the different types of trees and birds, and stopped often to pick a variety of fresh fruits hanging from the trees. We stopped and ate mangoes for breakfast, and he was especially inclined to stop to gather a fruit I had not heard of - picotes, a small fruit with purplish skin and a delicate, sweet white flesh. We also ate tamarinds, and visited a small island inhabited by four monkeys who showed their teeth if you got too close.
On the way back I could feel the sun starting to burn my skin. I knew I should probably paddle quickly so as not to be in pain for the rest of the trip. We paddled back to the canopy and he offered lunch. I ate a guapote, or lake bass, fried whole and washed it down with a cold beer.
Following lunch, I asked if we could visit Volcan Mombacho - an extinct volcano that erupted thousands of years ago forming the Isletas, towering over the city. In a moment he produced a friend with a taxi and we were off to the top of the volcano. We parked the taxi as far up the road as we were allowed, and promptly set out on foot. It was not long before his friend the taxi driver had to quietly bail out of our hiking excursion. To say the trail was steep does not begin to describe the angle of incline we were ascending. One man down we made it to the top. The view of the lake and the city of Granada was well worth it.
They dropped me off at my hostel, and I made arrangements to get a ride to the city of Rivas in the morning.
My bag was waiting safely on bed siete.
