Jeremy's Bike Blog

​It’s been close to for a long time, but my Bluetooth keyboard is now officially un-usable, what with so many nonfunctioning keys, meaning the remainder of my blosts will be swiped rather than typed.

Seems fitting, as most of the things that I use regularly seem to be falling apart as I approach the end of this tour. Then there’s the many, many pounds of stuff I’m carrying the last 800 miles just because I don’t want to chuck it or give it away, nor do I trust that it would get delivered if I attempted to mail it back home…and if I were to do that, I should have at least a few thousand miles earlier.

Starting where we left off: I make it to León just before a big rain, do some sightseeing and eating, and then watch an amazing lightening storm from the roof of my hostel.  The next day I go to Managua, taking 25km of unpaved roads via Google maps walking directions.  As almost always, this shortcut is anything but, when measured by energy or time spent, but it’s not a huge loss, and it is nice to be off road and largely free of cars for a while.

Managua is the capitol, and I haven’t taken a day off from biking since the hike up Acatenengo 8 days earlier, so I decide that I’ll spend 2 nights there.  The next day, I check out the plaza of the revolution and the waterfront. There’s a weird, deserted feel to the city, and the sun is searing my skin and boiling my brain, so when I get to and find that the national palace is closed, I use my phone to find a movie plex and go watch “suicide squad” (the only film playing withing the next many hours that’s subtitled, not dubbed) instead.  If you haven’t seen it, don’t. It’s such a completely boring, scatter brained piece of shit that I would have left early were the respite from the glaring heat not so nice, and nearly did anyways.

Next I bought makings for a large batch of mujudara, used the well appointed kitchen at the hostel to prepare it, then ate most of it.  I finished off the rest for breakfast the next morning.

Meanwhile a Facebook friend had mentioned in a comment on a post of mine that I was near the Mariposa Spanish School and Eco Hotel, where his nephew had spent a few months and really enjoyed it.  I read a bit about the place on their website, and am about to post a reply to his comment saying something to the effect of “looks amazing, but it’s not really in the cards for me this trip” when I thought “but why not?”.

So I sent off this email (ah how I miss a working keyboard):

Hello,

I’m writing from Managua, to where I’ve cycled from Colorado over the last 3 and a half months.  I’ll be doing a shorter leg today to Granada leaving in a little while.  I have a flight booked to return to Seattle from Panama City for Sept. 16.

I just learned of the Mariposa School from a facebook friend, and then read much of your site.  The discussion of travel and experience vs. learning struck a chord.  Bicycling solo has been an amazing experience, but has lately left me yearning for something a bit more meaningful.  I have a 51 day (and counting) streak on duolingo which, while it’s not anything like the commitment of an immersion course, I hope gives some indication of consistent interest in learning Spanish.  I’m also very interested in sustainable and low impact living, both generally, and in learning more.

So, I’m writing to see if, by chance, you have availability for a guest/student for a week, ideally starting tomorrow or the following day.  I know it’s exceptionally short notice, but this will still provide me enough time to finish the bike tour, and I figure it’s either meant to be, or it isn’t…in which case I will hope to have the opportunity to return to Nicaragua sometime soon and will get back in touch when I do.  If this could be made to work, I would be most interested in the home stay option, and/or any option(s) that provide for volunteer contributions in lieu of expense.  I’m a software engineer that has worked in construction, and am generally a quick learner and adept problem solver.

For more about me: I’ve been blogging about my travels at https://jeremycalvert.wordpress.com and my facebook profile is http://facebook.com/je.calvert (where I tend to primarily post publicly).

In any case, thank you for taking time to read this, and for, well, existing. Learning about you and what you do has really made my day!

Richard responds within a few minutes saying that yes, they could make that work.  I figure I’ll check out Granada (45km away) and stay at the hostel in which I’d just reserved a bed, then double back and ride the 40km to Mariposa. But as I’m riding and finalizing plans with Richard (yes, emailing and biking…actually not as dangerous as texting and driving), I was becoming more inclined to ride the 25km from Managua to Mariposa, start that day, and spare myself a somewhat gratuitous extra 60km of cycling. Again, Richard replies quickly and accommodatingly.  Only later would I realize what an effort this must have been on his part. He gets back to me well before the junction where I need to turn to go directly there, and so I do. I roll in a little before 1pm, get quickly orientated by Richard and Kat, enjoy a lunch they had set aside for me, then do my first day of language instruction, 2 hours of conversation and 2 hours of grammar.

The instructors are all exceptional.  I have 6 total in my 5 days owing to shuffling done to accommodate me and my last minute requests (I’ll make another for my final day so that I can join an outing to Apoyo, a lake formed in the crater of an ancient volcano).

At 5, after my instruction is complete for the day, I’m introduced to my host family, with whom I’ll be living for the next week.  They are Miriam and Gonzalo, daughter Yalalina, her husband Che-something,  and their son Eric.  I interact primarily with Miriam as she prepares breakfast and dinner each day for me for the next week. She’s 10 years my senior, and a sweet, doting matriarch.

They have been providing homestay accommodations for Mariposa students for years, and have hosted 50 some students.  They have a padlock for my room that they provide their guests, but I insist that it’s unnecessary. As the week progresses, Miriam evidently feels increasingly comfortable coming into my room while I’m at Mariposa, going through my mesh bags of clothes, and laundering the things she determines are in need of it.  She starts small, and when I express gratitude and make clear that I don’t find it intrusive, she goes deeper through my things while I’m away for the day. I joke with the other students/guests at the school that my odor must be leaving her with no choice, though there may be some truth to it.

After a particularly long hot day, shoveling, weeding, and turning soil in the nature reserve, the volunteer work I’ve opted to do in exchange for discounted tuition, I notice the pig that lives in the family’s small courtyard is taking a keen interest in my feet that have gotten pretty ripe in the still wet, and themselves quite ripe, leather sandals that I work and bike in day to day.

On my second to last night with the family, Miriam is asking when she might have opportunity to wash the board shorts I wear every day. I say they’re my only pair, but no worry, they’ll get a thorough rinse tomorrow in Lake Apoyo, and laugh with the family as I demonstrate how I’ll scrub them while wearing them.  A little while later, after some shuffling and Spanish spoken quickly and quietly in the way that things not meant for me to understand are, Eric walks towards me holding something behind his back and tells me close my eyes. I’m pleased with myself that I’ve gotten to the point that I can understand his instruction as I follow it, and then the obvious next instruction. He presents me with an alternate pair of shorts, a tank top, and a t-shirt.  Gifts to me from the family. 

On Saturday and Sunday there are no classes or volunteer work, but there are group activities. I go on a group outing to León on Saturday, and Richard is a fantastic tour guide, keeping us laughing throughout a tour of an old prison converted to a museum of Nicaraguan folklore. It’s a bit strange, the folklore portion of the museum is light-hearted, while the memorial to the victims of the atrocities committed there when it was a prison is anything but.  It’s a full day, and we’re back after the sun has set. 

 I’m keen to take the opportunity of a night and following day off to go see the cauldron of lava in the Masaya volcano 25km away. I discuss with my host family and they persuade me to not go while there’s drunk drivers, so instead of going after dinner, I set an alarm for 3am. It rains heavily while I’m sleeping, off and on, up until 3, but by then it’s let up to a sprinkle. I don my shell and attach my lights and head out.  My route goes through overgrown, pumice gravel road, and having removed my shell after the rain stopped completely I get wet from pushing through wet brush.  But it feels nice, particularly a short while later when I’m climbing up to the rim of the crater just as the sun is rising.  I have the place to myself, and it’s brilliant.

I head back in order to join a group hike starting at 8am.  

After the hike, I go home and sleep a couple hours, then I ride up to San Marcos, the largest nearby town, to check it out.

Later that night there’s a car accident in town, and I join Eric and his dad in running to check it out. The place is a mass of people, milling about discussing the situation. Car crashes are a real spectacle here it seems.

For my last 2 days, I pay in lieu of working on the reserve. On my last full day I go to the aforementioned volcano crater lake. I’m the only guy on the day-trip that’s otherwise primarily composed of interesting, hilarious, beautiful women with whom I hang out on a floating dock until a storm rolls in.  We swim back to enjoy beers along with the magnificent spectacle that is watching the storm sweep across the lake. The trip ends too soon, as we’re shuttled back to the school/hotel where I’ve made arrangement to have my final dinner with my new friends rather than with my host family.

In the morning, I have breakfast with and say farewell to my host family, then stop in at the school to say more farewells before continuing on my way. It’s been the longest I’ve stayed in one place since my tour began in April, and while I’m a bit sad to be parting ways, I’m looking forward to getting back into the rhythm of distance cycling.

Gonzalo was not home to say goodbye, as he starts working as a mini bus driver each day at 4am, but shortly after I start pedaling away from Mariposa, he passes me. I yell “GONZALO” as he leans out and looks back, waving, taking advantage of a gradual left turn that makes doing so possible, if still a bit crazy. I catch up with him in La Conception, the first town in that direction from Mariposa, and ride along side him for a few dozen meters, shaking his hand and sharing thank yous and goodbyes.

Over lunch, I connect with someone online who offers me a place to crash in the surf town of Popoyo. It’s about a 40km detour, but I’d been thinking I’d do a similar detour to San Juan del Sur just to get in some beach time. Plus there’s a Google maps walking route that I could take along the coast to hit both beach towns in a single, mega detour .

The detour, on the way to the coast, is unpaved but relatively smooth. Recent rains have left enough mud that my fenders jam up a couple of times, but I stop short of removing them, and make due by scraping them out with the file on my multi-tool a few times, while learning what combinations of textures of dirt/mud to avoid. 

The town is small and built around surf tourism.  I message my would-be host, then swim and body surf for a bit, then lay around reading while I wait for a reply that never comes. When it’s dark, I start inquiring at the various hostels about accommodation. Most are full, but there’s one at the end of the road that has a vacancy for $8. It’s a reasonably clean private room that I’m happy with. There’s two Israeli guys cooking rice and lentils on a camp stove in an open area, and an American guy taking to them. One of the Israelis and I help the American get into his van in which he’s locked his keys, accidentally busting out a window in the process. The American leaves in his van, and the Israeli and I take showers to wash off the tiny shards of glass (I need one anyways). The Israelis share their dinner with me, then a pineapple for desert, then we head down the road to one of the nicer hostels to drink a little beer and watch some Olympics. We’re not out late.  I’m tired from my day of riding and they’re on a schedule that has them up before sunrise to catch the current swell and have it to themselves before more novice surfers show up. 

The next day, when I get to the turn off where I’d turn the detour into a longer one, it’s a tiny road that, judging by appearances (in addition to my elevation profiler app and Google maps), promises to turn into a tight, windy, climby footpath.  I decide against it.  By noon, I’m back on the main Pan-American highway, in a large town having lunch. It’s only another 40km to the Costa Rica border, and I’m nearly out of Cordoba (Nicaraguan currency), so I figure ‘why not?’

I cross without difficulty, but there’s a line for the sole ATM that will eat well into my remaining daylight. So I convert my remaining Cordoba (about $8 worth) into Colón and ride off into what turns out to be jungle. There’s hundreds of tents and thousands of people of African descent lining the road from the border, and I’ll learn from a backpacker the next day that they’re African immigrants that have paid dearly to get to Costa Rica with the intention of migrating North, but who are largely blocked from doing so.

I stop at one of the few stores I see when it becomes clear that I’ll be wild camping for lack of alternatives, and pay nearly $2 for a liter of water that I guzzle while an African named Desmond chats with me in French accented English.

As the sun sets, I scope out the roadside for camping options, but the jungle is super thick and broken up only by small cottages and equally small, adjoining yards.  A flash storm breezes through and I’m in my rain shell, but without my rear blinky which I’ve lost on my morning ride to the volcano. It’s dark enough that I’m nearly ready to ask the resident of one of the cottages for permission to camp on their property when I come to a roadside embankment where the road has clearly washed out in the past. It’s got all the things I’m looking for: reasonable seclusion and a place large enough to lay down, and flat enough to be comfortable. 

I eat the remainder of my food and enjoy the sounds of animals that are completely foreign to me as I drift off to sleep on top of my biivy. When it starts raining some time during the night, I’ve already made sure that all I need do is slip into it and pull it over my head. Its a cool, pleasant night sleeping outdoors, though I pay the price of many bug bites acquired by morning.