Nica Stories: Party For Two in Granada

Tales from a non-traditional honeymoon...

Making friends with the bar owner who, according to her right eye, might be a Terminator

Story number three in the honeymoon anthology. For part one, where we defied fire and brimstone to the top of an active volcano, click on this link: Masaya Volcano Adventure. Part two saw Melody eat nub chicken and spend an enjoyable day swimming in a lagoon: Lagoon

Surprise trip to Granada, and disco-party for two

"We dare you to dare us to throw a disco party for two"

--Nica Proverb--

Sometimes the best evenings catch you by surprise.

Having thoroughly planned our two-week trip throughout Nicaragua, allowing for a varied range of events in each city, the one thing I did not plan for, was a day-long travel delay. So when I was unable to book an online flight from Managua to San Carlos due to the instability of La Costena's (Inter-nica airline) website, I knew we were in trouble. I suppose that I should have expected it, because even though the guide book instructed us to book online, the website's interface was only slightly more modern that Doogie Howser's computer journal. 

Using the antiquated cell phone our tenant provided us with, I was somehow able to book a flight in spite of spotty reception and difficulties understanding the lady over the phone. (Another example of how much of a second language can be lost without the benefit of non-verbal communication). Our flight, however, was a day later than initially planned. 

I let Melody weigh in on whether or not we should stay in Masaya or travel to another city for this "free day", and she chose the tourist-friendly former capital of Nicaragua, Granada. 

Granada is as close to Europe as Nicaragua offers, in my opinion. The quaint cobblestone streets in the center of town are lined by colorful two-story buildings with rows of white pillars, churches and cathedrals, and rows of statues, meticulously manicured plants and flowers, and oversized Nicaraguan flags. Horse-drawn carts carrying tourists mingle just as seamlessly with pedestrians as they do with the many cabs and pick-up trucks that populate the roads. 

Bold clouds hover over Granada

Granada is a port city on the northeastern edge of Lake Nicaragua, the massive blue legion covering most of the eastern part of the country, if looking at a map. It's visited by tourists from all over the world; and by "tourists" of course, what I really mean to say is dirty granola hippies. 

OK, by my own admission, that's a slight exaggeration, however the dirtier and hippier they are, the more they stand out in my mind. Like the blonde dreadlocked American woman who passed us shouting - SHOUTING! - obscenities to no one in particular. Because I know the basics of how not to get mugged, I avoided eye contact and only turned around when I was a good 200 yards past her, and her general craziness. I don't remember exactly what she said, and the Nica's to whom she was shouting towards likely understood less. Like a confusing game of Scrabble, I simply remember the phrases: "Fight for freedom", "In a prisoner of war camp" and, my favorite, though the one I understood the least, "Courtney Love". 

Attempting to delete the stains of hippie juice from our collective mind's eye, we spent a nice day strolling through town with no agenda. We shared Coke's with some kids in one of the town's many parks. Melody found a great purse store, where we shopped for purses made of genuine Nica leather, while we watched locals work in the back, cutting, dying and sewing new ones. We each lost no less than a quart of sweat due to the sauna-like sales floor. 

Melody shopping for purses made out of, I believe, soy by-products

I inquired about cigars at a small store, and was surprised to receive an impromptu tour of the Mombacho Cigar Shop. We were taken through the cigar preparation process, watched workers roll, trim and mold the leaves into cigars, then invited inside the walk-in humidor before buying some fresh Nica stogies. One of the many unexpected gems of the trip. 

Rolling in the leaves

Invading their workspace

Pretending to know about cigars

Seeing our first opportunity to get dolled up (that phrase is admittedly more for Melody than I), we decided to visit the hotel room for a quick rest, then head out for the evening. Once there, I cranked up the AC - our first exposure to artificially-chilled air in five days - and we both fell into an air conditioned coma, unable to speak or move as the cool air penetrated the thick layer of sweat, dirt and grime that had become our unwanted exoskeletons. It wasn't until dehydration threatened - that damn water bottle on the other side of the room - that either of us moved. 

Showered and with the prospect of feeling fresh for at least seventeen minutes, we headed to watch the sun set on the lake before dinner. A cool lakeside breeze fought off the humidity while next to the dock's edge, but when the orange and blue sky turned dark, and we headed towards a row of cantinas for food, the humidity attacked once again, seemingly from the inside out. 

Melody attracting way too much attention from Nica men with her beauty

We set out down another touristy district, where earlier in the day they were charging a few cordobas (Nica currency, under a buck) to go through the gates. When we arrived around 5:45 - keep in mind the sun set around 5:30 every day - the guard was nowhere to be seen, so we passed through with trepidation. With such beautiful wildlife and lake-side scenery around us, it was disturbingly quiet as we crossed a wooden bridge - it felt like sneaking into an empty Old West actor's town when everyone was on break. 

Total darkness set in quickly, as usual, and the empty restaurants appeared to be gearing up for what we could only imagine was a "club scene" to take place in a few hours. All we wanted were some food and rum, though, so we set out into the unknown keeping an open mind. The restaurants we passed differed from each other only slightly, and all had a few key components: Tall thatched banana-leaf roofs; large wide-open seating areas full of wooden rocking chairs wooden love-seat swings; short stumpy tables; unique lighting of some variety; gigantic speakers out in the open; and a small office/bar/kitchen/DJ booth that served as a home base for the proprietors.

Since everything looked the same, and we were feeling fresh from the showers and a sort-of-cool yet romantic sunset, we decided to walk until one of the places called to us. And right before we hit the end of the dark paved road, that's exactly what happened. 

We passed maybe nine bars without seeing any customers, just the owners and workers setting up for the evening shifts. That is, unless you count the bearded gentleman taking a nap in the dirt next to the entrance of one of the first cantinas we passed. Counting him, that makes one customer in nine bars. The office lights were on, so that in the darkness all we could see on either side was the activity in and around the kitchens. We scoped out the possibility of food, but also discussed each place's approachability. This was important because these places likely weren't expecting anyone for the pre-dance crowd, and we didn't want to seem like non-understanding tourists violating social norms. Which is precisely what we were. 

But then, like a spotlight illuminating a lion tamer, we received our bat signal. A bar with no discernible signage spoke directly to us with a visual display that rivaled Stone Mountain's Fourth of July celebration (Google that if you don't know what it is). We stood mouthes agape, scared yet excited, waiting for our bodies to understand the message that the neurons behind our eyes had already sent up to our brains: we had to go inside!

The place was huge but empty. We saw a lady by the bar who was probably the owner, and she was talking to a younger man, who played the role of server, chef, bartender and, his true passion, DJ. There were yellow lights on all four corners of the covered cantina to help us locate a seat without knocking our shins into a wooden rocking chair. 

Beginning in the center of what we later learned would be the dance floor, a series of hundreds of red and green dots moved in unison, forming patterns then breaking away quickly and creating circles, squares, and even lightning bolts. This laser-light show formed from inside the cantina and bled onto the streets, attracting customers - namely us - inside like insects to a zapper. 

I asked the owner if they served food, and when she replied "no", we sat down anyway, spellbound and sensory overloaded. Even before the server took our order, she was out with a bottle of heavy duty Off lotion, to ward off the masses of mosquitos that were already plotting to steal my blood. With service like that, we owed it to her to order a bottle of rum - it was the very least we could do to show our appreciation. 

Party for two...

I ordered the works. A small bottle of the good stuff - 7 year Grand Reserve Flor de Cana, complete with a bucket of ice, soda water (for me), Pepsi (for Melody), limes and salt. This is how I would spend evenings with visiting Peace Corps volunteers in San Carlos, laughing and joking about their lives in the further remote regions of the Rio San Juan. 

Our bottle yielded 4 - 5 drinks each, which on and empty stomach, could have spelled disaster. But luckily for us, and totally out of the blue, we were treated to a one-man music concert, which blared from the six-foot high speaker located not ten feet from our table.

Like all memorable, unexpected evenings, we didn't fully understand what was happening until we were in the thick of it. Toasting drinks and lighting just-purchased cigars, a familiar sound came through the speakers, catching me off guard yet stimulating the part of my brain that is capable of forcing my mouth to say the phrase, "Hell's yeah".

The only time I wasn't singing was when I had a cigar in my mouth

It was a slow Mexican guitar riff, and for some reason it made me picture Antonio Banderas staring passionately into an ocean, missing the top three buttons of his white puffy shirt. But when the singing began, the mental image in my mind's eye changed for the worse. I had the following loud exchange with the music:

To really love a woman

Me: No!

To understand her

Me: Oh No!

You got to know her deep inside

Me: This can't beeeeeee!!!

Bryan Adams, and his catchy crap ballad "Have You Really Ever Loved a Woman?", was being played at a volume akin to KU's pre-game basketball introductions. Which is to say too damn loud. A look towards the kitchen saw the DJ give us a thumb's up while bobbing his head, pleased that he finally had gringos who would obviously appreciate his musical tastes. This was when we realized we had no idea what we were in for. 

As Bryan Adam's crowing mercilessly faded out, another recognizable tune blended in. A mutual look of recognition between Melody and I meant trouble - it meant that we were going to sing "End of the Road" by Boyz II Men in unison. At an unsafe volume. 

It's amazing how much of that song we remembered, seeing that I was reciting what I learned solely from their late 90's music video. A nod of approval from the DJ enabled us, and we cranked up the volume (admittedly Melody was the only one singing; the term for the incoherent noise escaping my lips lied somewhere between squawking and propaganda-rally-belting). 

We raised our glasses and cigars towards him, then put them down and clapped loudly. For those keeping track, we remained the only individuals in the bar. Between the booze, the music and the strong fumes of mosquito repellent wafting up from our skin, we lost any and all sense of self-consciousness...and self control. This party was for us, as evidenced by the fact that we were the only ones in attendance. 

After a few latin-infused songs, our buddy returned to his sure-fire gringo hits, replaying both songs for his very receptive audience. Within twenty minutes, feeling more confident than ever, he took us for a third lap around musical gringo highway. With each rendition, our sing-alongs became more boisterous and less accurate, and the thirty feet of physical distance between us and him shrunk as if we sitting at the same table. 

The bottle now empty, its contents feeling warm and fuzzy inside our empty stomachs, we made the difficult yet necessary decision to pull ourselves away from the dance floor in search of food. Our host and DJ pleaded for us to come back later, but with an average bed time of 9:37pm on the trip, we knew it was unlikely. 

I made Melody hop behind the counter to take a picture with the people who had provided us with so much enjoyment, further commemorating the evening. After that, we wobbled arms-around-shoulders towards sustenance, which at that point, was as necessary as it's ever been. 

As we left behind the disco lights and began the walk down the long dark road, I turned back to view the bar from a distance. The memory that resides in my mind is as strong and vibrant as any positive thought I currently keep up there. This was an unexpected night in a new city, the only part of our trip that I hadn't planned while in the US. And it turned out to be one of the very best date nights we've ever had.

Enjoy some additional pictures from our one-day stay in Granada:

Waiting out one of the many rainstorms we encountered...

Frozen Macua's, the Nicaraguan National Drink

Posing in front of an intimidating door

Our hotel, the rich bastion of air conditioning

Busy and colorful streets, with volcanos overlooking the city

Sometimes when you see a horse standing alone at the corner of a road, you have to approach it...

Granada, lit up at night

Late-night Night Nica food: A heaping plate of beef, pork, chicken, plantains, fried cheese, salad, rice and beans.

Imposing view of the cathedral

This little guy sold us some gum, and stayed for a Coke 

Panoramic image taken from the central park

Nica Stories: Swimming in the Laguna de Apoyo

Tales from a non-traditional honeymoon...

Soaking it up in front of our lagoon-side bar

Story number two in the honeymoon anthology. For part one, where we defied fire and brimstone to the top of an active volcano, click on this link: Masaya Volcano Adventure

La Laguna de Apoyo y El Mirador de Catarina

"There's no denying it, the fried chicken that the one-armed lady at the bus station served me was the best chicken I've eaten in my entire life!"

--Melody--

Having walked more than fourteen miles - over 32,000 steps according to my Fitbit - on the first day of a honeymoon that I was solely responsible for planning, I felt it fair to plan a day of rest and relaxation for my loving and understanding, brand new wife. Though as a couple we're not keen to sit on a beach all day and read John Grisham novels while our delicately pasty skin boils to a nice lobster red, we don't go out of our way to eschew comfort when it's within our realm.

My plan was to spend the day at the Laguna de Apoyo, a wonderfully peaceful and - more important to our cause - clean swimming hole that rests at the feet of the Masaya and Mombacho volcanos. Having previously conquered the Masaya volcano, bodies aching as a result, it was fitting to heal our wounds by drinking beer and swimming in its glorious waters, beneath the clouds whose birthing process we witnessed the previous afternoon. 

But before we could crack open the Toña's, we had to find our way there. Since public transport was our only option, and I was still readjusting my brain as to how much value a cordoba (Nica currency) offered, I decided to brave it to the bus terminal, which in any Central American town is the easiest option for getting anywhere. 

Spread out over a large dirt field, vendors line approximately eighty-five percent of the terminal's perimeter, with (mostly) ladies hawking a diverse array of basically anything you could ever need. Staples like fruits and vegetables were stacked high in large baskets on the ground and smaller baskets worn like hats, sold throughout the terminal wherever the vendors wandered, even going so far as to board the buses. 

Food and drinks were aplenty, with women and children offering bags of peanuts, chips, baked treats, and candy from the masses of packets that hung from their bodies, while others sold bags - yes bags! - of water, soda and juice from inside buckets or bags they carted around. In Latin America, the snacks come to you!

From there, the goods offered explode into an array of items unimaginable in any mobile and public setting: hammocks, belts, sunglasses, pirated CD's and movies, vitamins, cacao powder, flashlights, you get the idea. There's always the chance, though extremely remote, that a totally random item will fall into your lap at just the right time. Like the time that I answered a knock at my door in San Carlos the day I planned to go into town to buy a mattress...and some guy was there selling mattresses.  

It's tough work, and I've often wondered just how fruitful it can be, but this sales approach remains a constant in almost all towns throughout Nicaragua. While in San Carlos I befriended kids who sold tortillas and shined shoes for their family, as well as adults who operated in this sort of sales trade, and I cannot say that it's easy work. But they do it for their family, and typically the kids sell during the morning or afternoon when they're not in school, and at a young age they learn the lesson of just how important it is to help the family in any way possible. It makes my high-school job at Treescapes Lawn and Garden Center look like at Wall Street gig, though. 

We arrived in the dirty, dusty and distastefully smelly terminal with forty five minutes to spare before the bus headed out. In search of breakfast, we navigated the dense crowds and dogs picking through seemingly random piles of garbage. In Nicaragua, when you're traveling with me, breakfast often means fried chicken and tajadas (thinly sliced and deliciously fried plantains). We found a lady selling this out of a basket, and before Melody could object I ordered two meals. 

As she searched her fried chicken cemetery of a basket in search of our meal, I didn't realize until she was tying the plastic bag - all bus terminal meals are served in plastic bags, by the way - that her hand was not fully formed, because on one arm she had a nub that ended roughly at her mid-forearm. This did not have a particularly strong impact on me at the time, as I even went on to order a bag of triangularly shaped sweet bread from her; however, when Melody and I rehashed the situation back on the bus, I had to question just how good of a new husband I was. 

Because here is how this story plays out to a third party observer...

It was 9:30 am on the second day of our honeymoon, and I had already taken my new wife on a 14 mile hike, slept under a mosquito net with the bedroom fan (along with all power in the house) cut off, we walked two more miles in the morning, had sweated through our clothes by 8:30 am (and Melody is NOT a morning person), took a cab to a stinking, dirty bus station, bought super-fried chicken that was handled by a one-armed lady and sat down to dine in the romantic confines of a hot, child-filled 1970's era school bus to eat our breakfast. 

Melody is such a trooper, but I knew that we had to make it to the lagoon for this day - and this trip - to be a success. 

And sure enough, the bus took us all the way down to the bottom of the lagoon where we departed, trashed our chicken bones and took a breath of that sweet near-water air. From the moment we stepped off of the bus, I knew that this experience would make up for any previous discomfort. That line from Dumb and Dumber popped into my mind: "Harry, just when I thought you couldn't possibly be any dumber, you go and do something like this...and totally redeem yourself!" 

A quick scan told me that any bar within eyeshot would suffice, so we walked to the closest one, and after some discussion, took a large plastic table and some chairs down to lagoon level (like sea level, right?). Having breakfasted on fried chicken and now seated at a sandy bar, we felt it appropriate to order a pair of Toña's and toast the occasion. 

Two beers to represent the two volcanos surrounding the lagoon: Masaya and Mombacho

We saw a group of weirdly rowdy young Nica's to our far left and no one to our right - the lagoon was ours for the taking. A few sips in, I couldn't resist temptation anymore, so I de-shirted and ran into the clear waters, Melody following shortly after. 

Melody toasting me from our peaceful bungalow

The sand at the Laguna de Apoyo is dark and extremely fine, the result of centuries of volcanic activity. (I'm sure there's a much more scientific explanation for this, so ask Melody - she probably knows). Though the view from our lower-level outdoor beachside bar hangout was tremendous, the 360 degree panoramic from the water was Eric Clapton song-worthy. 

Pano from our spot

Lush rainforest wraps around long stretches of the lagoon's circumference, looking piercingly green and vibrant, as if a T-Rex attack was imminent (this is meant to invoke the beautiful scenery from Jurassic Park, not to scare you, the reader). Volcanos angle out of the water towards the clouds that fill the sky's canvas. The sheer amount of blue blues and green greens is mesmerizing, and made my brain question my eyes as to whether or not they were sending accurate information. 

We swam through the clear, perfectly temperate water - cool enough to be refreshing, but warm to the point where we never had goosebumps. Hours passed as we swam, and hydrated with beers, which contained what I can only imagine is a normal, small, amount of water. 

When it came time to eat, we continued the downward spiral into Nicaraguan deliciousness, finding Melody another new "top-three" item: Vigoron. The Nica way of serving the yucca root, vigoron consists of cooked yucca in some sort of vinegar sauce, served atop tajadas (remember those...thinly sliced, fried plantains) with a cabbage and tomato salad and chicharonnes (fried pork fat) as a garnish. This dish is particularly great for us; we both love it, but for different reasons. I'm perfectly fine with some yucca and the chicharonnes, while Melody craves the yucca, tajadas and salad. 

Finally able to relax on her honeymoon

Oh, and together we also consumed a massive bowl of beans. Because that's how you do it! And a plate of government-fried cheese. Because, oddly enough, that's also how you do it. 

For four or so hours, we had our "Sandals" moment. It felt amazing to sway weightlessly in the crater's belly with a better-than-Bob-Ross painting hung on every inch of nature's wall. 

It would have been extremely difficult to climb the volcano the day after such a peaceful and romantic excursion. As Melody knows, I'm not one for gifting flowers, so I have to make up for it in unique ways. But seriously, how many women can say their men have booked them a reservation at a bar at the base of a volcano, next to a crater, for a day of swimming in see-through water? And in the middle of the rainforest, to boot. Take that, Capital Grill at 8pm on Saturday night!

Eventually we packed up our belongings and headed back up (in a super-expensive cab) the lagoon, to finish the evening and watch the sun set at El Mirador de Catarina, which translates to The Catarina (a town) Lookout (a visual scenic point). 

Looking dramatically at the dramatic sunset

Catarina is situated close to my Peace Corps training town of Niquinohomo, which other than being the Nica town in which I miscommunicated almost everything due to my poor spanish skills circa 2004, is more notably recognized as the hometown of Augusto C. Sandino, who fought off U.S. Marines in the 1920's, and was posthumously chosen as the political symbol and namesake for the Sandinista movement. 

The Mirador is a slightly touristy lookout spot that attracts mostly curious Nicaraguans, but has also increased in popularity as a destination for Americans and Europeans alike. The view is stunning.. - basically it's the same scenery from the lagoon, but from a higher vantage point. 

Mirador Lookout, just before sunset. Probably not important, but a Canadian woman took this picture. 

Women sell artisinal crafts - bowls, hammocks, vases, necklaces, bracelets...trinkets - to tourists who sit on the concrete benches taking in the intimidatingly beautiful landscape. I could unsuccessfully to describe it, but you're best served to look below. Boom!

Lookout point from El Mirador de Catarina. Not taken by the Canadian woman. 

This place has it all: A quaintly fenced-off rainforest walking path around town; vibrant green rolling hills; the clear water of the crater's lagoon; volcanos in the distance; and a beautiful cloud bonnet tying everything together. 

We sat for half an hour before ordering coffee's at a restaurant. We spent some time debriefing what had been a long and interesting day of ups (lagoon-side beers) and downs (sweaty clothes at 9am), while packs of stray dogs searched for scraps around us. As the sun set, the sky changed from blue and yellow, to orange, then pink and finally a deep, dark purple before fading to black. I was conflicted, torn between simply taking in this natural beauty, and wanting nothing more than to capture it with my camera, to share later on. So I tried to do both.  

This happened!

Melody eventually ordered Jalapeño Steak - anything with Jalapeño sauce was now our new favorite meal, just three days in - and I went with pork ribs. We incited a stray-dog riot by surreptitiously chucking our bones and scraps below us. This wouldn't have been an important detail, but after the meal, when the sky and our surroundings were now pitch-black and we were standing on one of the stone benches getting all huggy, this same skin-and-bones group of dogs shot out of nowhere, barking violently, chasing each other. Though it probably didn't happen, I had the distinct impression that one brushed against my leg. 

The final word of Romantic Sunset chapter was written. 

This day proved to be a great recuperation from the effort expended on the Masaya volcano. Though still hurting, sore and a bit tight, we were better off for it. With the sun setting at approximately 5:30, we were at home and ready for sleep much sooner than one should expect while on vacation. But when you start the day with fried chicken for breakfast, you shouldn't really set any expectations for how it will end. 

Below are some of our faves from this great day:

Great shot of my trusty Atlanta Braves vacation hat

This is the Nica version of "shenanigans"

This proves there's no Nica crevasse too remote for selling treats out of a basket on your head

Goofing off...

Melody fighting boredom

More goofing off

You can already see in this picture just how sun-burnt my neck is. The following day, and straight through to the end of the two week trip, my neck and nose remained painfully, comically burnt. Melody looks cute in this pic though...

A tiny, ponytailed dot among the rippled water

I thought setting up this coffee shot would be cool...but in hindsight it is not. But I made Melody pose, so best to share it...

This shot almost broke my camera lens with it's complex assortment of vibrant colors

The "stitching" on this was not great, but holy crap, is it beautiful!

Nica Stories: The Masaya Volcano

Tales from a non-traditional honeymoon...

Breakfast nook-eye view of the Masaya Volcano

In the spirit of brevity and not diminishing my massive readership, I'll make an effort to journal many of the great stories from my recent trip to Nicaragua (with my wife!)...in separate, digestible posts. My hope is that you experience this amazing journey with Melody and I as if you were right there with us - sweating, walking, seeking shade and dodging horse-drawn rickshaws just as we did. These stories don't represent the sum of our journey; they celebrate some of our favorite, most dramatic and harrowing moments. They're the fun ones. You'll have to ask about the rest. 

The Masaya Volcano (Volcan Masaya)

"Now every time I see a cloud, I wonder lies the volcano that created it"
-- Greg--

What a view!

Thanks to Airbnb, Melody and I were able to rent a quiet (quite the luxury in Nicaragua) farmhouse two miles outside of Masaya, a crafty city not 30 minutes by car from Managua, Nicaragua's capital. The picture you see above was taken from the patio the morning we hiked that volcano; The same volcano that awoke the tiny part in our brains that translates the following phrase into a warm sensation: "Holy crap, that's gorgeous".

After a few cups of coffee and conversation while staring at our target, we geared up and hiked into town. Seventeen seconds in, we were sweating.

We had gallo pinto (red beans/rice, with loads of grease), fried cheese (of governmental quality) and tortillas for breakfast, then asked the owner which bus could transport us to the Volcano. While we were waiting, an elderly cab driver persuaded me to have him drive us there for 80 cords, or roughly 4 dollars. He thought we were German, which was unexpected and sort of nice. He also tried to convince us to allow him to drive us to the top, beginning negotiations at $20 (US), then dropping to $12 and finally $10. This was expected. He couldn't understand our desire to walk the 6km to the top. Or he wanted to ensure having a fare when he drove back into town. He definitely offered us the "Gringo Rate" for the ride there, which I paid indifferently.  But there's nothing sexy about summiting a volcano by cab.

Posing with Sandino at the park's entrance

Due to its history and visibility as a geographical landmark - you could say that it's the mother of all volcanos in the Land of Lakes and Volcanos - Volcan Masaya is a protected national park. This means there's a museum that serves as an educational center, gift shop and hangout for the park rangers. We arrived there less than one mile into the hike (still relatively flat terrain), ducking in just before a massive rainstorm began thumping the zinc roofing.

We paid the modest entry fee, signed the log book and took a lap around the museum to view the various volcano-related exhibits. (And for the record, most of the time when I say "we", what I really mean to say is "I", since as the only spanish-speaking member of our traveling outfit, I was solely responsible for all translating, purchasing, signing-in and organizing duties - basically anything that involved talking. "She" did help with bag transportation and Cortisone cream application, however. Both imperative).

Trippy mural inside the museum

Somewhat certain the rain was gone for good - or at least as certain as one can be in a tropical humid environment - we set out and up the paved road to the top. A park ranger on a motorcycle played leap-frog with us, likely because being the off-season we were one of only a few people visiting the volcano. Certainly the only Americans. So obviously we merited a "close eye".

He'd pass us, then wait for us to pass him, at which point he would, you guessed us, pass us again. Finally, to break our weird non-verbal relationship, I asked him how far it was to the top. He told me that it wasn't too far by bike. When I reminded him that we were hiking, he told me how many meters it was from the top. When I asked him if he knew how far it was in feet, he rightfully looked at me cross for not using the metric system. I said we'd figure it out and see him at the top.

Because of its activity, volcanic rock was piled high all around us. Just off of the road, piles of large black porous chunks of volcanic rock came out of the ground like small, extremely dense hills. According to the guide book we purchased, in 2011 a chunk destroyed an Italian tourist's car. This is also where I read that gazing into the center of the crater was like, "Staring into the Mouth of Hell!". I added the exclamation point, because it's impossible to speak those words without getting at least a little bit excited.

Volcanic rock from lava circa 1772

We walked peacefully, taking in the exotic surroundings while rehashing highlights from our wedding and reception; considering we were hiking a freaking volcano in Central America, it felt like they had taken place months ago, across the globe. With our crazy schedules, Melody and I have to make time to spend with each other, a habit that takes effort and commitment, but is richly worth it. There, sweating and chatting, it felt nice to know that we had two uninterrupted weeks to spend with each other. I didn't even take my phone - how's that for minimizing distractions?

We felt rain threatening, but as luck would have it, we came upon a small covered stone building, where we sat for a few minutes enjoying the scenery and a Clif bar. The billowing steam (not sure if the appropriate term is steam or smoke, so I'll use both interchangeably) kept lifting itself out of the massive crater, rising high after clearing the rim, joining the rest of the clouds in the sky; nature's assembly-line version of a deluxe Cloud-Maker.

Pondering life from inside our rock shelter

Because she can't read spanish, I told Melody this was a "Hugging Post"

As we climbed higher (and keep in mind "climbing" still meant "walking up a steep, paved road" at this point) we saw the lush green rainforest replaced with brown, almost cactus-like plant life. Black volcanic rock dominated the upper peak, leaving very little room for greenery to thrive. It was beautiful in its own gruff manner, displaying a vast array of black and brown rock, roots and shrubs on the jagged and sterilized landscape. We both wondered aloud how many centuries worth of eruptions must have happened to get to this point.

There was a parking lot at the top of the Masaya Volcano containing only a few cars. We saw a few other tourists - non-hikers - in one corner, so we went to the opposite one. We also saw up close the large cross that had been our asthmith (it's a GPS term - look it up) throughout the four mile hike up, though unfortunately we couldn't climb the stairs that lead to it's base. Something about it exploding last year - I'm not 100% sure as I didn't fully listen to the park ranger's explanation (admittedly our trip suffered slightly due to my inability to pay attention to everything at all times).

Lot entrance, with cross in the background. The stairs up to that side were roped off.

Before we knew it a waist-high rock barrier was the only thing between Melody and I and a very dramatic ritualistic sacrifice. The view was amazing! When we could see through the smoke, that is. We could see around most of the crater (the crater being the top of the volcano) when the haze wasn't strong, but we could not see directly down to the center of the volcano. I don't know what I expected, but this was entirely different. OK, that's not true, I know exactly what I expected: something like the Eye of Sauron, with glowing red volcano and a creepy starfruit-looking eye staring at me. What would you expect after reading the phrase: "Mouth of Hell".

On the edge of the "Mouth of Hell"

Posing at the rock wall that separate us from the cloud making machine

Holy cow, this looks like a painting. Not sure if my photoshop skills are helping/hurting this image. 

I know what you're wondering and yes, I purchased Melody a coconut on the condition that she sing the coconut song from The Lion King..."I've got a lovely bunch of coconuts..."

What we witnessed, however, was much more beautiful. Steam rose up all around us as if we were on an airplane flying through the clouds. The white steam was so white, so rich and pure that it didn't look real at all. I go back to my previous point; it felt like we were in the middle of the cloud making process. Like there were little cloud babies being produced in the depths of this volcano, and we were fortunate enough to witness them grow up and mature into strong and respectable adult clouds right before our eyes. Very "circle of life".

A rocky trail to the left of the crater called to us, offering a unique vantage point: a view down into an active volcano. It was just as amazing as you could imagine. The trail led us to a point where we could see not just the active Masaya Volcano, but also the inactive, and somewhat lush, Nindiri Volcano. The steam took on a different look and feel from this altitude, as it puffed up and out between the green trails and black volcano.

Surprised to have such a wonderful view

Taking it all in, from atop the crater

Walking into the unknown

Laguna de Apoyo - our future swimming hole - in the background

No, this isn't a fire. It's the Earth making clouds!

Perched up as high up as the trail would take us

It's dizzying just how beautiful the view is. You can see the entire town of Masaya, a clear lagoon (La Laguna de Apoyo) and both volcanos, not to mention the full canvas of clouds that you just saw being created. It was astonishing!

Panoramic view of both craters, with steam rising from the Masaya Volcano

After taking pictures for half and hour or so, we packed up and began our descent. Having already put in seven miles up to that point, and not yet twenty four hours from a day spent in airports and on planes, with only two real Nica meals in our bellies, our bodies began to rebel. It wasn't an all-out mutiny, but enough to where walking backwards down the paved road felt comforting. Our calves appreciated this tactical shift.

We completed the hike by passing through the gates once again, hitting the eight mile mark as we did so. A high-five cemented this momentous occasion, after which we un-glamorously waited for a bus to take us back into town, and ultimately, our quite farmhouse (which we cabbed to, saving our legs two additional miles).

Still a beautiful smile, even after 8 miles

Main entrance, just off the highway

The evening ended with an amazing jalapeño chicken meal, complete with rice, beans, and tostones (fried plantains) and a stop in the market, where a bottle (OK, bottles) of Flor de Cana, our favorite Nica rum, was purchased. After showers and stretching, we sat outside for hours recounting the day while sipping rum and smoking cigars. Yes, even Melody tried one.

This unforgettable meal did its part to replenish the copious amount of calories I shed on the volcano

And even though the fan in our room - well, all power, to be specific - crapped out in the middle of the night, we both slept like royalty, not even waking to pee, probably due to dehydration. Hiking and rum drinking on very little water will do that to you.

But now we can say that we've hiked up an active volcano and witnessed first hand a different slice of the world.

Wait...not awesome enough.

We've stared into the "Mouth of Hell" and lived to tell about it!

Yeah, I like that better.


More stories to come, but in the meantime, feel free to scan the rest of the pictures from our time in Masaya and Granada.

www.awesomenicapicturesfromgregandmelodyhoneymoonawesomeness