How I never have reliable internet, or rather, a story about a girl who lost her sandals on a volcano

I am sitting here writing this in total darkness.  The power went out about two hours ago, because of the storm, and hasn’t come back on yet. 

Sunsets are early and regular in this country.  And during this season, so are the storms. 

This is the fifth full day we’ve been in Nicaragua, and the third storm we’ve experienced.  This one feels worse, but it might just be because of the intensity of the rains, how fast we were soaked, or the waves crashing on the beach in full view of the open, Pacific Ocean. 

We came here to relax, after two days spent hiking three active volcanoes.  We have blisters on our feet, and our legs were tired. 

Our trek was great.  Léon was great.  The people of Léon love Léon, and all the many and varied expats of Léon love Léon.  Nica peoples seem to be a culture of passion.  It is a hard life here for most, and they take pride in it.

Our last (and technically, extra) days in Léon were great, if not hot.  I thought a few days ago, that it was the most I’ve ever sweat in my life – I was wrong, it turned out.  We went to our favourite coffee place, Libelula a few times (and got the iced coffee, double shot espresso – every time!).  We walked to the Cathedral, and the central market (centró Mercado).  The Cathedral was beautiful – it’s the largest cathedral in Central America, though small by European standards.  For 85 cords each, we were allowed to climb on the roof of the cathedral, and we could see the whole string of volcanoes in the area.  The cathedral is in the middle of a restoration project, to turn it back to its original colour – pure white.  As such, we had to take our shoes off when we climbed on the roof, and the concrete was hot.  We danced our feet along the shadows as much as we could – it reminded me of being a kid and walking barefoot to the store.  I used to have to hop from shadow to shadow and walk the lines of paint like a balancing beam.  Walking on the roof was a lot like that. 

The central market was neat, too.  Dozens upon dozens of shops crammed into a small block space, lined with raw meats (and a lot of them), sitting baking in the sun (which is apparently sanitary, but neither one of us was willing to try it…) – fresh iguanas!  By fresh, I mean, still alive.  It’s a delicacy.  You eat the iguana raw, while it is still alive.  I asked the woman selling them if I could take a photo.  She smiled and said something I didn’t understand back and made the universal gesture of “go ahead”. 

We found a French bakery, which might have been my favourite part, because Nica food is not exactly something exquisite.  We ate fresh baguette sandwiches, and palmiers for dessert, with fresh papaya and fresh pineapple juice.  I bought a bracelet from a street vendor, and we spoke to each other in a broken jumble of three languages – English, Spanish, and French, depending on when and where our words failed us.  We told him we were from Canada – he asked us if we speak French – I replied in French, and then Spanish, in case he couldn’t understand.  We told him his country was lovely, but too hot for us, and I made my purchase, and we walked away. 

On Friday morning, we left our Airbnb place quietly, arriving at the trekking place just before 7am.  We prepped our gear and had a quick breakfast of eggs and potatoes they cooked up.  I say we, but I mean Alan and the others who were trekking with us.  I have been suffering from a minor UTI (and an allergy to the toilet paper, which is scented, by the way – who scents toilet paper?  The entire country, it turns out) …and in embarrassingly broken Spanish, we spent part of the previous day at a farmacia, trying to ask for cranberry pills, or something which would help.  After being given (just GIVEN – at 4 cords per pill) a pile of Cloroproxin (or something) – no prescription – the woman wasn’t even a doctor.  Anyways, I took one that night, and one the morning of trekking, and I was sick to my stomach.  The thought of breakfast was too much for me.  I actually didn’t eat a thing until we came down from our first volcano. 

We hopped in the back of a large pickup truck style bus (read: overglorified pick-up truck with seats in the back) and it drove us a 45 minute drive out of Léon, out into the farmlands and the wilderness of the jungle, and towards Cerro Negro, where the first part of our morning was to be spent volcano boarding. 

Cerro Negro first erupted from a farmer’s field in 1850 in a spew of molten rock and ash, and has been growing ever since.  Now, at last measurement, it stands a whole 728m high, and is still very active.  We departed the bus, grabbed our boarding gear, and our boards, and hiked up through the steep black detritus, all the way to the top, stopping periodically for water breaks, and photo opportunities.  It took about an hour.  Close to the top, we dropped our gear and headed for the top.  We had to wait for the volcano to be clear (there was a group ahead of us).  Our guide took some photos of us at the top, and we felt the ground, which was producing so much heat that one of the people in the group with us lost the soles of her shoes – they came unglued.  I found several more sets of soles on the way up the mountain, too.  In the wind, Alan lost his hat.  Some poor Nica farmer now has Alan’s favourite First Air hat.  When it came to be our turn, we geared up (a pair of gloves, a pair of goggles, and a full body denim suit tied at our wrists and ankles) and got the pep talk and the safety talk, and waited in line to board down the volcano.  While we were waiting, we saw one guy go down standing up with a helmet and arm and leg gear in his shorts and t-shirt – it didn’t end well. 

The whole way up, I had been talking about how I miss snowboarding, and I was so excited to try this standing up.  Well…that volcano is steep.  Too steep.  I went very quickly from Ms. Adventurous, to Dear-God-Why-Did-I-Sign-Up-For-This-I-Am-Going-To-Die.  We all went down on our bums on the boards, which is how you’re supposed to do it anyways.  We were shown how to turn, how to go fast or go slow, and what to do if you spin out of control.  Determined not to be the first person, or the last one down, I wiggled my way to the middle of the group (about six of us, by the way), and waited my turn.  Alan went right before me, and wiped out partway down.  He is missing flesh from his elbow.  One guy from Texas went down craaaaazy fast, and when I talked to him at the bottom he said he couldn’t figure out how to stop.  When it came to my turn, I wasn’t ready. I did it anyways.  I got on the board, and immediately regretted my decision.  I thought I could control my speed, but I wasn’t doing a very good job of it.  And that steep slope, well…it got steeper about halfway down.  At one point, I reached warp-speed and started wobbling out of control.  I moved my arms behind me, I dug my feet into the mountain, and I prayed to the volcano gods, please, please don’t let me die up here.  It’s too hot for me to die in this country.

Somehow, I slowed myself down, and reached the bottom no problems.  Minus the shaking, and general terror, I suppose.  I’d do it again, in retrospect.  It was fun.

After that, and some snacks, we said goodbye to our volcano boarding guide, and the two people who were only there for the boarding (the Texan and the girl who lost her soles) and started the hard part of our trek.  Volcano number two.  El Hoyo – in Spanish, it means “the hole” and is named such because of an unexplainable sinkhole at the top.  The country’s best scientists can’t figure it out, and neither could I, when I finally saw it.  There’s no reason for it, really.  El Hoyo is also active.  Both Cerro Negro and El Hoyo have active sulphur vents (which were equal parts cool and scary, especially in light of the fact that the largest volcano in the chain, Mombotombo, gave off a 5.4 earthquake last week, and we were very nearby it). 

El Hoyo started out with a solid hour (or hour and a half, if you are me) uphill.  Straight uphill.  In the heat of the day.  Without shade.  I thought I was going to die.  I wasted $69USD.  I wasted two days of my life.  I was going to die on this hike. 

I have never sweat so much in my life.  Ever.  Never ever.  Within 10 minutes, my wet headband was dry, and the rest of my body was wet.  I had sweat dripping from my forehead, dripping from my lips, into my mouth, dripping down my spine and down my breasts, and down my legs into my socks.  I was so wet with sweat it looked like I was wearing a drenched t-shirt and I had wet myself.

And the worst part?  I felt like I was going to vomit.  With every increasing step.  One guide stayed behind with me, while the rest of the group and the other guide forged on ahead.  Fred, my French guide (and former chef, who left his job to travel the world, because he didn’t like to do what the world wanted him to) stayed behind with me, as I started, and stopped, and crouched in a ball, and drank water, and tried not to vomit, and started again.  He was very kind, and agreed with me that yes, you are in decent shape, no, this mountain does this to 50% of the people who hike it, yes, it is fine, no, you are just not accustomed to the heat…

(While writing this in the dark, I felt something land on my knee, and I instinctively slapped it.  Upon inspection, it was a firefly, and I killed it.  I have killed a firefly.  I am a monster.)

And I made it.  That first part was over.  At one point, Alan waited for me, and gave me some electrolytes.  I shakingly accepted, and started sipping electrolyte water instead.  At the lunch spot, which I was very late in arriving to, we all sat down and had some delicious sandwiches, with curried zucchini, and roasted carrots, and fresh homemade pesto, because Fred the chef still loves to cook. 

After food, and three litres of water, I felt a lot better.  A whole lot better, in fact.  So much so, that the rest of the two days was fine.  The rest of the day went well – we carried on our hike, stopping for water breaks or interesting sights, or to ask – what’s that? – to every plant and animal I saw.  I saw a dung beetle digging a hole in some poo, and I saw a few little lizards, and I saw a plant with red berries that might have been coffee, and a tree that had a cactus growing on it, and I saw the national tree of Nicaragua, and the national tree of Guatemala, and the national bird of Nicaragua, and I tried really hard to see the boa constrictors that were supposed to live in the jungle, but I never did.  I also tried really hard not to see the boa constrictors that were supposed to live in the jungle. 

At the edge of the jungle, close to our campsite, we collected firewood, and I found two blue tail feathers from the national bird of Nicaragua.  When we reached the campsite, the landscape opened up into a large plain, with a few horses grazing, and we set up our tents.  After 8 grueling kilometres in the +30 heat, we made it.

Only to discover that my sandals, which were strapped to the outside of my bag, weren’t there anymore.  I had lost them, because my bag had broken somewhere along the way.  I didn’t think that was possible, it is a sturdy backpack, and I have never had a problem before.  But it did.  It broke.  

And with it, went my sandals.  The volcano gods stole my sandals.  Fred and I ran the trail back, convinced it must have been in the dense forest when we were collecting wood, but we didn’t find them there.  He told me to walk back to camp (about 15 minutes away), and he would carry on to the crater where we had our last water stop.  I headed back to camp, looking extra hard for my sandals, but to no avail.  When Fred returned, he said he ran the trail all the way back to lunch, and didn’t see any shoes, and neither did the set of trekkers he passed, either. 

So those shoes, that I ordered online, and tried so hard to get to me before I left for my trip? Yeah.  Those shoes.  I lost them four days into Nicaragua.  Stole off my bag by some malovent volcano god, or more plausibly, by an asshole tree branch at some point.  By the way, now I have to warranty my bag.  Because my main side strap is busted.

Bummed out, and getting chilly, now that several litres worth of sweat was cooling on me, we hiked up to the lip of the hole, and checked out the sulphur vent.  I threw a rock at it and down it.  Take that, volcano god. Our only Canadian companion, Melissa, threw up near it.  Take that, volcano god.  (she was recovering from some bad street food, and apparently wasn’t over it – she’s fine now). 

Dinner was a delicious campfire version of risotto, and a smuggled bottle of wine shared between six people (our two guides, Fred and Natasha – also French, and Judith from Belgium, Melissa from Edmonton, and ourselves), and then we took ourselves to bed, just in time for the lightning storm. At the ripe time of 7:20pm. 

My favourite part of the night were the fireflies though.  After sunset, the volcano erupted in a cloud of fireflies.  They were everywhere, and I loved it.  I love fireflies.  I just sat there, not facing the fire, but facing the darkness, and watching and watching their little lights zip in and out of existence.  I still feel bad about the one I accidently killed earlier while writing this.  I even apologized to it and then willed it back to life.  I watched his little firefly light go out, and it made me really sad.

At 4:45am the next morning, we rose for the sunrise, which admittedly, was beautiful now that the storm was over.  I had slept poorly, so I snapped a few photos, and crawled back into the tent until I could smell food.  After some porridge, we packed up, and started hiking down.  The hike down from El Hoyo was steep, and buggy.  We entered the jungle pretty quickly, and a lot of the plants had thorns.  My legs are currently a war-zone, as I was in shorts (like everyone else).  It didn’t take long before I was sweating profusely.  Except for the day before, I’m pretty sure I have never sweat so much in my life. One of the plants we had to avoid at all costs.  I forget the name, but it had fine thin thorns all over it, and apparently if touched, it produces a painful red rash that doesn’t go away for some weeks.  I think I have escaped touching it, but I did get a thorny vine caught in my hair, which was both embarrassing and painful. 

Our lunch spot on the second day was Laguna Asososca, a lagoon to one side of Volcan Asososca, our third volcano.  We all brought swimwear for the occasion, and it was delightful to remove our shoes, inspect our growing blisters, and jump into the warm water in an attempt to wash off some, but sadly not all, of the grime.  We stayed there for a while, before redressing in our now disgusting clothing, and finishing the last hour of the hike.  Once we left the volcano, we had to walk 45 minutes through farmer’s fields to catch the bus back into town.  By that point, I had a pronounced limp, thanks to a blood blister on the bottom of my left foot, and no sandals to air it out with. 

Once we got to the road, I exhaustingly ordered a pop (el gaseosas) from the food stall nearby, and we sunk to the ground to wait.  The bus took us from wherever it was we were, to La Paz, a local town we needed to transfer busses in. 

That bus ride might be the most enjoyable thing I’ve ever done.  Nicaragua’s local transit system is a large series of old American school buses that were driven down to central America and left here. The locals then decorated them in brash colours, installed loud speakers in them, and use them as local transport.  They’re called chicken buses. This one had a television screen at the front playing a very loud, very upbeat Coombia song, and ribbons and streamers hung off the rafters.  Our knees all touched the seats in front of us, as these buses were meant for schoolchildren, and it made stops wherever there was someone in need of a bus. 

In La Paz, we changed buses, and took a slightly less enjoyable bus (thanks to the heat, my growing discomfort, and the number of stops we made in said heat), and got back to Léon.  That was yesterday.  Or, yesterday as I write this.  By the time I get power back, this might be two days ago.

 

Tired, and in pain, and hungry, and grumpy about my feet and lack of footwear outside of boots, we took a taxi all the way to our current location, Las Peñitas.  It cost 300 cords, or about $10USD, which is ridiculous here, but we were tired, and I had the money, and I just didn’t care. 

We’re staying in a party hostel, but it’s pretty empty.  Just a bunch of chill surfer brah’s and their surfer chicks, and the drinks are cheap.  After a shower, we drowned our pains (Alan didn’t escape unscathed either – his shoulders got really burnt and he has some foot blisters too) in mojitos made with local rum, and went to sleep at 8. 

Today has just been spent existing.  I’ve found probably 100 seashells, and all of them are beautiful, and I don’t know how I’m going to bring them all home.  I played the wave game, where you run in during the break, try to pick up a shell, and then run out before the crest swells and the riptide pulls you away. It’s a fun game.  Although I got splashed in the face and almost knocked over once today.  But the shell I got was worth it.  I’m going to make a necklace from it. 

Mostly, we’ve been eating and resting in hammocks.  While walking on the beach earlier today, I got stung by something on my toe.  It hurt really badly, and we were 30 minutes from my epipen, because we were just in bathing suits, and what are wasps doing on the beach anyhow?  Suntanning?

So we rushed back to our little hostel, and I cleaned my feet of sand and laid on the bed, and drank some water, and Alan got my epipen out and handy just in case, and we just waited.  I was shaking and having trouble breathing, but I wasn’t getting hives, or splotchy, or any real throat swelling, so we were just waiting.  After an hour and a half, I was fine, and we decided it wasn’t a wasp I was allergic to (aka the yellow jacket or a hornet).  After a bunch of googling, we decided it was maybe a spider wasp (do NOT google this if you are afraid of wasps or spiders, it’s terrifying – I threw Alan’s phone on the bed when I looked it up).  Anyways, not allergic, just incredibly painful.  Tossed some polysporin and a bandaid on it, but now I really am having trouble walking on my already torn up feet.

 

I bought some overpriced (way overpriced) flipflops at the beach today this afternoon, and for dinner, we found a local fish joint.  I ate a whole fried fish, which aesthetically, I was having a moral quandary about, but taste-wise was the best tasting thing I’ve ever eaten in my life.  We’re going back tomorrow. 

We are only supposed to stay until tomorrow, but I think we will stay another day.  It’s cooler here by the sea (only 30, not 34 and humid), and I like the ocean, and there’s still twelve hundred seashells for me to collect.  I’m on the hunt for the best one. 

***This is now a full two days later, and I just barely have internet access.  So…no final draft for you!  Here’s the rough draft without photos or videos.  More to come if I ever get reliable internet service again.***