We were a bit concerned about the political situation in Nicaragua but we had friends who knew a family in Matagalpa and put us in touch. William and I corresponded and while there were still problems he assured us it was safe to drive there. We also got an invitation to his home and coffee farm and plenty of recommendations for places to visit.
Esteli was the logical place for our first night and we had a contact there. We’d continued to receive advice from the WhatsApp moto group and it was interesting to translate the various messages as we moved from country to country. I use the word ‘translate’ loosely here as Senior Google doesn’t always catch the nuances (and Senora Yvonne isn't much better). Other times it’s like he’s translating a severely hungover Coleridge describing his opium-induced dream. Once I was informed that the ‘underworld was in full swing’ which gave food for thought for many an hour in the sidecar.
Arlyn in Esteli had offered us a room and he roared into the gas station on a beautiful bike, jet black hair flopping over mirror shades and a big cigar sticking out of the corner of his mouth. We drove through various back streets which gave way to tobacco fields and stopped at a big metal door. We’d no idea if it was his home, his work or what. It opened to reveal the biggest surprise ever: a cigar factory. Inside was quite small with a staff of 4 or 5 smoothing out large dried leaves, filling them with tobacco, rolling, pressing and bundling in sheets of newspaper. A little dog lolled in the rustling scraps on the floor and the roller guy was puffing on his own product with a passion. Later some friends showed up to inspect us and they too were busy smoking. Perhaps they were testers. Watching the sun set over the tobacco fields, we talked until dark and Fran gave a few driving lessons. We declined the offer of the bed which was at the back of the factory. Fran wanted something other than tobacco leaves for breakfast the next morning.
After introducing us to the delights of Nicaraguan food and finding us a hotel in town, we said goodbye. The next morning we were woken up at 6:30 AM by loud music and somebody counting and giving instructions. Leaving our room a while later we had to hop over leotard-clad bodies on yoga mats and side-step two guys doing push-ups. I never thought of renting out the area outside people’s hotel rooms before. Nothing is wasted south of the border, not even an empty patch of floor.
We arrived in Matagalpa early and William drove us out to his coffee farm where a special day was in progress. There was a thank-you lunch for his employees to celebrate the end of the harvest. His extended family was also there and children’s squeals filling the afternoon air. After our tour, we met everybody and ate a huge meal in the beautiful lodge wedged between the coffee fields and mountains. William made his own cheese too and down the hillside in dappled green meadows his cows were grazing. It was a strange feeling to arrive in a country that’s in the news so often and find yourself in the midst of a happy family gathering.
We had a second private tour the next day, this time at William’s coffee mill. After watching workers rake endless sheets of beans drying in the sun, we had a coffee tasting I will never forget. That was the day I realized 'Folgers' is a bad word, and sometimes 'Starbucks' too. I was more than a little hopped-up afterwards but will never match the strength of the workers out in the fields carrying up to three sacks of beans at a time.
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The family were going to the beach for the weekend and we drove together some of the way. The excess kids were tucked into the back of the big pick-up with a mattress, coke bottles and coolers. Just before Managua we turned off for Granada. We arrived with nowhere to stay and checking the phone on a side street we attracted a bit of attention. As well as men trying to lure us into hostels, there were two clowns on stilts and a little boy of about 7 or 8 selling sugared candies out of his backpack. He stayed around for a while, quietly inspecting the bike. He was so small and gentle I wanted to pack him into the sidecar and take him with me. We met him again another day, shyly approaching tables at the outdoor cafes, hoping for a sale.
The city was beautiful, Spanish colonial at its best. Once packed with expats and tourists, it was now almost empty. I found a hotel on a quiet street behind a huge set of wooden doors. Inside was a straight out of Arabian Nights. Pferdi got a parking space opposite the fountain, between the dark library and the turquoise pool. The breakfasts were great: smooth, strong coffee and rich, yellow omelettes, gallo pinto (rice and beans) and fried plantains. What a deal at $40.00 a night!
We continued south, enjoying the countryside with no trace of roadblocks or trouble. We cancelled our beach time and decided to spend the last days on the island of Ometepe on Lake Nicaragua. It’s in the shape of a figure 8 and formed by two volcanoes, one active (another smokin’ boy), one dormant. Arriving at the ferry terminal we were the last vehicle on. From the top deck as we moved away from shore, we saw that poor Pferdi wasn’t strapped in and was moving back and forth in the wet. Worse, the crew had neglected to raise the ramp. Fran staggered down again, it was very choppy, and did the best he could with scraps of rope and mooring lines.
We spent the days walking and driving around the island. Half the roads weren’t paved but they were the ones that got us closest to the volcanoes. In the mornings we watched horses and cows take their bath in the lake and at lunchtime passed kids walking home from school, two in particular accompanied by a black pig. In the little town by the port there were some tourists during the day but at night the streets were deserted and the restaurants empty. In other villages, the collapse of tourism continued to take its toll with hotels and canoe and bike rental shops all shuttered. We walked across the runway of the little airport and never once had to step aside for a plane.
The breakfasts at our small hotel set us up for the day, eaten to the strains of Latin music which began in the house across the street every morning at 7 AM. It got too sad to sit alone in restaurants at night so we’d have a snack on the balcony and were entertained by the activities below. More than once the two oxen across the street escaped and had to be marched home by their weary owner waving a big stick. One night a motorbike drove by, followed by two or three barking dogs. Behind them came a pig, and just when we thought the circus was over, a horse trotted up the rear.
And so it came time to cross the lake again and say goodbye. Sometimes it was hard to remember the problems Nicaragua is having, but they are there. In fact, it turned out that Matagalpa is one of the more active areas in the political struggle. The Nicaraguan underworld may have been in full swing but we skimmed across the surface without incident. Everyday life must and does go on. Carried along by the goodwill of new friends, it was easy to look up and around instead of down under. Besides, fueled by the freshest of coffees and a good head start from the smokin’ boys of Esteli, how could we possibly go wrong?