I can’t believe it’s been over a month since my last post! My how the time flies when one is on the road, regardless of how busy, boring, or fun that time is. My excuses for not blogging sooner are as follows:
- I haven’t seen an internet cafe since Granada.
- I don’t own a laptop.
- I don’t have the dexterity or patience to type out a blog on my good-for-nothing iPhone.
- I’ve been busy (ish).
Okay, now that I’ve explained myself, let’s get back to the subject at hand. I’m currently borrowing a laptop from a guy in my hostel, typing frantically to the music of crashing waves in a sleepy Costa Rican surf village, trying to remember all that has transpired since my last post. I left off in Ometepe, the world’s largest volcanic island in the middle of a freshwater lake, Lake Nicaragua. It is known for it’s beautiful if slightly dangerous treks up to the volcanic peaks. Clearly, I wasn’t getting involved in that, so Georgina and I decided to bunk ourselves at Zopilote, a permaculture farm/hostel up in the hills for a few days of R’n’R.
What I hadn’t planned on was the muddy, slippery, vertical trek to get from the road to the farm. Fortunately, some kind and sympathetic stranger served as my sherpa–for my backpack, at least–while I heaved, grunted, and sweated my way up the precarious climb. Upon our arrival, we were told that there were no more beds available, but we could sleep in hammocks for the bargain price of $3/night. Why not?
Georgi and I settled into our hammock dorm, joined our fellow Zopilotians for pizza night, and fell into U-shaped slumber. The next day was spent relaxing, blogging (on another borrowed laptop), and reading. What was supposed to be paradise or Utopia was anything but for me; what added to the beauty of the farm and its grounds only added to my agility-impaired frustrations. To get from the hammock dorm to the bathroom was in and of itself a mission involving slippery uphill climbs, narrow bridges, and toads on steroids (I quickly designated a grassy patch behind casa de las hamacas as my outdoor ladies’ room). Getting from the proverbial Point A to Point B was not easy for a girl on crutches. The woes of a hillphobia added to the recognition that a majority of the other Zopilotians were a bit on the strange side, we decided to leave the next day with our newfound friend and travel companion, Frenchman Adrien, and head for the beach.
After a series of taxis and a boat, we arrived in San Juan del Sur, a beach town on the Pacific Coast known for its nearby surf swells and weekend party scene. Arriving on a Saturday, we were able to witness all the debauchery this place provides for backpackers and weekend holiday-making Nicas alike; the town’s bars, restaurants, and discos were packed until the wee hours of the morning. I went out two nights in a row, and my slow recovery reminded me of old my age.
Other than that, there was really not much else to do in San Juan del Sur, or at least not for someone who can’t surf, so I was bored after about two days. We stayed for five nights (the hostel’s pool kept me going), and when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, it was finally D-Day: the day that Georgina and I would go our separate ways.
By that point, we had been traveling together for almost three weeks and had been having a jolly swell experience, but I was in dire need of “me time”. I travel alone for a reason, and while it’s always nice to find cool people to stomp the travel trails with for a bit, it’s always just as sweet to be alone again, and I was ready for it. We said “Ciao for now” (making plans to meet up again a few weeks down the road in Costa Rica), Adrien drove me to the bus stop on his motorcycle (I scored a ginormous tear in the ass of my black leggings in the process), and I was off to Managua Airport for the next solo leg of my trip!