Allow me to adopt a slightly different prose for this report…
Rumble…rumble…rumble…beep…beep…beep. Certainly not my favorite way to start the day, being rudely awakened by the churning of the aft thrusters that are conveniently installed two decks right below my cabin in chorus with my little alarm clock that informed me that the time was now 8:30, and I need to get to the shore excursion desk in the next half hour to pick up my tickets for today’s adventure--“Colonial Leon and the Bubbling Mud Pots”. It’s dark. The absence of windows and thus any natural light in my officer’s cabin means that I depend upon the cold glow of fluorescent lighting just so I can see a clock. Otherwise, the only way to even guess at the time is to gauge how tired I am. But even then, my biological clock can fool me since it may become inadvertently set to sleepy o’clock after eating a big meal. Speaking of which, it’s a port day which means I just have to don my uniform and I’m eligible for the best meal of the day in Horizon Court--breakfast! Pancakes, bacon, eggs, hash browns, cereal, and an assortment of beautifully presented fresh fruit await me upstairs. With all the working out I’ve been doing, my body has been craving more and more food. With the newfound motivation of a large breakfast in my near future, I get dressed and head for the atrium where my tickets are waiting.
Ah, much better. The buffet was especially good today apart from the pancakes. For some reason, they’re always a bit too crispy for my liking. Since the dining area was largely devoid of passenger, I’m able to sit by a window overlooking the flat, green expanse of Puerto Corinto. About 20 minutes and a full stomach later, I bus my own table and head below decks. I still have half an hour until I have to report to the tour bus, so I head back to my cabin to put the one thing on that someone like me simply cannot survive long without--sunscreen. I was really hoping that this run would make my skin more tolerant to the sun and I might even get the semblance of a tan that I’ve always wanted. I really hate being so fair. I hate having to shun the sunlight. But that’s the way God made me, right? Yeah, well why didn’t He make everyone else that way then? Being fair is unfair. Sigh. Resigned, I just do what I have to do and slather sunscreen over every exposed part of my skin. Better that than blistered I guess.
Not having ever been to Nicaragua, I’m going ashore prepared. I have my gore-tex hiking shoes, my $300 Oakley X-Metal sunglasses, about $70 in cash, and my little digital camera. Thankfully, the line to get off the ship isn’t long at all. With the familiar *ding* of the A-Pass system as I stick my laminex in the credit-card size slot, the ship registers me as being on shore. I pull my sunglasses over my eyes and leave the safety and comfort of the Island Princess.
Not a second later…wham! I walk into a wall; not a wall of wood or brick mind you, but rather a wall of heat. It’s easy to take for granted just how well the ship is air conditioned until you leave the boundary of the cooling system. Two thoughts cross my mind--I should have brought bottled water and I’m glad I’m wearing sunscreen (although deep down inside I’m still whining that I have to wear it in the first place). In both Guatemala and here, the ship is docked at an industrial port, which means a decent walk or modest cab ride until you clear the port and enter the heart of the country. Today for me though, it is just a modest walk, only a couple hundred feet to our bus. I’m thankful it’s not that far either. Not for me, but for some of the passengers who seem to be quite elderly or simply out of shape. Cruising is on the opposite end of the spectrum from a strenuous, physically taxing lifestyle which tends to draw clientele who prefer, shall we say, to use a lower gear in the car of life.
Our bus is very nice. The one in Guatemala didn’t have working air conditioning, but this one does and in abundance. The tour is completely booked, so as an escort I find myself sitting in the very back of the bus. Within minutes, we’re underway.
The port is actually much larger than I had originally thought, but it’s easy to tell when we clear the final gate since the scenery changes so drastically. Industrial becomes residential. Residential in this context though equates to living conditions not often if ever seen in the United States. At best, many people live in glorified tin sheds. Dirt floors are commonplace and concrete floors are a luxury. In contrast to the States though, where everyone tends to stay in their houses within their own little world, people here like to socialize outside with one another, often sitting on their “porches” watching the day go by. Children as young as four years old roam the streets freely without a parent in sight. Perhaps the children are instinctually street-wise, or perhaps these communities are safer for kids than those in the States, or it could be that the parents just don’t think about it. Whatever the reason, people seem to spend a lot of time outside, and nearly everyone fixes their stare on the bus as it passes by as though it was flying.
We’re told it’s about an hour and a half to the first destination--Colonial Leon. During that time, our guide will spend a significant amount of time on the microphone talking about whatever tour guides talk about. In Alaska on the White Pass Train for example, a majority of time was spent talking about the history of the train, the Yukon route, the gold rush, Skagway, and such. Here in Nicaragua though, things are different. As the microphone comes to life, our guide spends most of his time talking about the history of the country, especially their recent civil war. Nicaragua is a country plagued by a violent history and current poverty. As I look out the window watching the makeshift homes go by, my attention is diverted to the guide as he talks about children begging in the places we’re about to visit. He asks that we not give any money to the kids, since it’s in their best interest to not accept handouts, but rather go to school and learn to provide for themselves--the old proverb about giving a man a fish or teaching him to fish. Makes sense, but I can understand why a child’s mind can’t think that far ahead. It’s why the parents don’t get it that puzzles me.
Nicaragua is a largely Catholic population, and of course Catholicism doesn’t subscribe to any form of family planning. Therefore, with extreme poverty already such a substantial problem, couple that with an average family having seven children and you can begin to understand why children as young as six years old begging in the streets can be so commonplace. It isn’t a matter of choice as much as it is a matter of survival.
Nearly an hour has passed and our guide has told us about the war, political upheavals, assassination attempts, torture, bloodshed, guns, bombs, and landmines--the kind of background you don’t hear about on any of the Alaskan tours. A great deal of history is rooted in Nicaragua, much of it quite sad and dark. After about another half hour of driving past shanties and sugar cane, we finally arrive at Colonial Leon.
Leon is an old city; restored, preserved, and bustling with activity. In the center square, merchants have erected tents to sell anything from pottery to soft drinks. One thing our guide advised us on is if you make eye contact with any vendor or beggar, plan on having that person follow you for quite a while. Thankfully, my sunglasses aren’t see-through so I shouldn’t have much of a problem.
As our group passes through the square, I’m surprised that for the most part we’re being left alone. In this part of town at least, perhaps the residents are used to busses full of rich American passengers coming and going all of the time. It is a popular tourist attraction after all--only two Princess endorsed tours exist in this port, and both of them go to Leon first. As we approach the cathedral, we pass by children running, music playing, and merchants peddling their wares--just the kind of sights you’d see in any public square in the States.
“Uno dollar?”
I turn to my right and notice a boy about ten years old holding up one finger and a small cup and looking right at me. My first thought is to my cousin’s son, Ryan, back home. Ryan is about this boy’s height and age, but Ryan concerns himself with piano lessons, baseball, and playing the Wii I gave the family for Christmas. In the brief moment our eyes locked, I envision that this boy would love nothing more than to wonder which Wii game he’ll be getting for Christmas this year, but I‘m sure his concerns are far from such luxuries. I’m betting that he’s not in school, and very likely will spend his Christmas standing in this same square with his little cup. On the advice of our tour guide I shake my head at him and continue towards the cathedral. Dismissing this boy was easy enough, but dismissing the vision of Ryan standing in the square asking for money will be more difficult. Being that it’s just in my nature to care, I think about things like that. Every child deserves an equal opportunity at success and this boy will simply not have the same chances that Ryan will. Perhaps the key to emotional survival for visitors here is to remain completely impersonal.
The cathedral is quite beautiful, and I’m a big fan of such architecture. After a brief introduction in the main hall, our group starts heading up a set of stairs towards the roof. Today we’re allowed to walk along the roof, which after a short ascent provides a nice view of the square below and some additional interesting architecture. Being here reemphasizes my hope someday to tour the world visiting every old cathedral I can possibly see. The incredible amount of effort and resources it takes to build a cathedral is a testament to faith, and being among the cathedrals reemphasizes mine. Everywhere I go in this cathedral I’m snapping pictures. This place also has a crypt, marked by several staircases on the main floor which descend into darkness. I’m very sorry to say that the lower levels are closed off to the main public. Oh well. I have several good photographs of the rest of the cathedral for my memoirs.
The guide has now given us an hour to wander around Leon on our own, which isn’t very appealing to me. I’m not an avid shopper, and don’t want to pack a bunch of trinkets home. But I suppose wandering around affords me the opportunity to take more pictures of the local culture. It doesn’t take more than a few minutes for me to realize that I stand out in Nicaragua like a sore thumb. As a white guy walking around with a camera I’m drawing more than my fair share of long looks. Generally though, I’m left alone with the occasional exception of a vendor trying to sell me ice cream or pottery. After our brief visit in Leon, our group boards the bus again for the main attraction of the tour (at least for me), the bubbling mud pots.
About half an hour has passed, and the bus is driving through more impoverished rural areas when suddenly we come to a stop. I’m thinking we’re probably just waiting for a cow to cross the road or some such thing, but then the doors open and our escort tells us that we’ve arrived. So indeed, the bubbling mud pots aren’t a large-scale attraction like something you’d find at Yellowstone, but actually make their home right outside a small community. There’s a lot of children around, almost like they’re waiting for the bus and it doesn’t take me long to figure out why. As we head down the road towards the volcanic “pots”, the kids start to pair off with the people in our group and walk with us towards the main attraction.
The bubbling mud pots are mostly holes in the ground containing boiling mud, hence the name. The field the pots encompass is only about 150 feet across, and it’s roped off with some makeshift caution tape and stakes in the ground. Even so, the barrier only covers the first half of the field so it’s entirely possible to walk right up and step into a boiling hole of mud. The entire field smells of sulfur and is covered in white smoke, or perhaps steam.
Just then, I notice that a boy of about 10 years old has begun to shadow me, so even I was paired off with one of the local children. As I’m snapping photos, he starts speaking to me in Spanish and pointing at the pots. My Spanish is virtually non-existent on a good day, so all I can do is nod. We’re about half way around the field when my adopted child holds out his hand and says, “Uno dollar?” Ah, now I get it. These local children wait for the busses to come and as the tourists pour out of the bus these kids act as tour guides. Actually, if they’d speak English they might have a pretty decent racket. Remembering the advice I was given at the start of the tour, I tell my 10 year old guide that I don’t have any money, whereupon he simply skips off and finds another unaccompanied tourist to hook up with.
Time passes quickly here, and before we know it (really about 20 minutes later) we’re back on the bus heading for the ship. We leave the young tour guides behind us and our guide tells us it’ll be about an hour before we arrive at the terminal--plenty of time to reflect on everything that’s happened today.
After our hour has passed, the bus pulls of the highway and we start to pass the last of the tin-walled houses with dirt floors. The occupants are all sitting outside as is typical, and nearly all of them take notice of the bus as it passes though their neighborhood. The roads here are narrow and in poor condition, which means the bus moves quite slowly. But just then, the bus comes to a stop, undoubtedly because of another car passing in the opposite direction. We’re only stopped for a few seconds, but during that time I look out of my window and lock eyes with a beautiful young girl, probably no older than seven. She’s in bare feet and a peach colored summer dress, and while the other people glance at the bus and move on, she’s fixed on me. I almost doubt she can see into the confines of my air-conditioned bus through the tinted glass and my $300 sunglasses, but my instincts tell me otherwise. As we look at each other for that brief time, I also notice something in the background off in the distance. It’s my ship, and for a moment I realize that I’m witness to two completely different worlds in the same picture. And as the bus starts to move again over the unmaintained road, the nameless, barefoot little girl breaks here gaze with me and turns to walk back into her home of dirt, tin, and concrete while I steadily head for my home: a half-billion dollar floating hotel where my biggest worries are crispy pancakes, no windows in my cabin, and skin that won’t tan.
