My final leg of the Latin America trip brought me back to San Juan Del Sur to surf. Marshall booked it back to Texas to work and I came back down for my last three days, met a bunch of fellow travelers, hung out by the beaches and chilled with them when we weren’t surfing which was fun. I got into a big wave my last day and ended up breaking two fins off my board, so that was a bummer end to my surfing on this trip, but not forever.

I’ve expressed my thoughts on San Juan Del Sur and Nicaragua in previous posts so I won’t rehash, other than to simply say it’s a cool place, very much up-and-coming, and if you need a good getaway (from honeymoon to backpacking), get here before it turns commercial and touristy. It’s still very untainted by massive tourism but that’s not going to last. The country is beautiful, food is good, and everything is cheap.

After this trip, I head over to Texas for a week in San Antonio and Austin before I hit the grind in Boston. More to come.

“My wallet was just stolen.” I said with a frustrated sharpness to Marshall.

“What happened?”

I was thinking the same thing. The last time this happened to me was seven years ago in Barcelona. I’ve since sharpened my detection skills over the course of 30 or so countries, even catching one thief in Paris mid snatch. But I had a feeling it might happen on this trip. I did kind of stand out. We were total gringo’s, dressed up in big hats and sunglass flair, storming a crowded street party discotec in Granada after a long day and weekend of celebrations.

Two days earlier, we left San Juan Del Sur and made the 2-hour journey north to Granada, which was named by the explorer Cordoba after his hometown city in Spain. It’s a beautiful little colonial style city sitting just south of the capitol and right on the northern shore of Lake Nicaragua. Its location and history have made it a prominent place and it has restored itself really well, adding neat sidewalk cafés and shops along with a bustling local market to the Spanish architecture that spans the downtown. Walking the streets, I had the feeling Cuba might have a similar look.

We just so happened to stumble across the biggest weekend of the year in Granada, the Hipica Horse Parade, which basically celebrates all things horses, an animal the country utilizes abundantly. We found ourselves in one of those situations all travelers seek, haphazardly discovering a great local festival.

Marshall commented several times that there were more people and more things going on than Mardi Gras. We both agreed we hadn’t come across a party of this magnitude in some time, if ever. All five senses were overwhelmed to a point of numbness. All you can really do is try to focus on one at a time and appreciate the state of madness that you eyes, ears, or nose is experiencing. Or you can just do the opposite and drink the cold beer.

When we first arrived we heard there was going to be a big celebration. The central square and side streets were buzzing with small crafts vendors, food booths, and parade stands. Fortunately for us, the majority of people who attend this weekend, other than the locals, are from nearby Managua or the countryside so we didn’t have a terrible time finding a place to stay. Unfortunately, the festivities also brought thieves.

After we dropped our bags, we went exploring and found this barbershop called 007, which afforded us very inexpensive open razor shaves to prepare for the weekend. It’s something I would like to do more often, particularly in an atmosphere like in this shop in this town, one that preserves the older daily tradition.

The problem was that there was really no air condition so it wasn’t that comfortable. (This town is super hot. Walking into a cold air-conditioned room is fairly uncomfortable after self cooling yourself with a constant layer of sweat all day.) The other problem was that I don’t think the razor blades they used were sharp. I felt like there shouldn’t be repetitious grinding. The final problem was that the after shave also remained traditional, alcohol only, and I almost didn’t ask Marshall for feeling like a wuss, but did so and felt relieved he too experienced the 30 second fire on our face with the application of this painful post product. I escaped with one cut and Marshall with lots of little ones, lol.

“OK, what do we do next?” What do you do a lot of while on vacation? Eat. We stuffed ourselves at the premier restaurant in the city, eating $10 pit grilled filet mignon and toasty bread with yum side things I cant describe masculinely.

Afterwards we found the parade, which included very little pomp and circumstance of big decorated floats; instead opting for lots of music, dancing, and showy dresses / outfits. The funny thing about the parades we saw is that basically anyone can just walk with them. The police lazily and inconsistently placed pedestrian barriers to form the route but that really didn’t stop people, beer cart vendors, kids with trays selling gum and cigarettes, cotton candy sellers, people collecting used cans, dogs (you get the idea) all going to and fro in the middle of the show.

The party was sponsored separately each day by a different Nicaraguan beer company. One day you see signs, banners, flags, beer carts, beer girl dancers, etc with “Victoria”. Surprisingly we woke up the next morning and the entire festival had switched colors, now doning ‘Tona’, the other national beer. If that wasn’t enough, the main parade mc would find a way to say the beer name in every other sentence the whole afternoon. If he didn’t he would just start chanting it! “Victoria, Victoria, Victoria…”, next day “Tona, Tona, Tona…” which was actually pretty effective advertising because we found ourselves only drinking the beer that was being sponsored that day.

After the parade stopped, we entered this restaurant/bar that was having an after party and watched Michael Phelps pull another amazing feat of victory – I think it was number eight. We may have done some ‘Victoria, Victoria, Victoria…’ chanting in his honor.

It was here that the first night turned interesting. We were at the bar watching the Olympics when these two guys walk in and sit down next to us. They were probably mid 30s and were casually well dressed. We strike up conversation and they take a liking. Turns out they are twins, own all the Toyota dealerships in Nicaragua, are swarming with that car dealer confidence, are raging loud and crazy, and have a big lake house nearby. They lean into Marshall and say, “You guys stick around with us tonight and you won’t be disappointed.”

Two hours later we’re packed two Jeep Grand Cherokees deep with girls and guys off to their house. The twins spoke English and one other guy spoke some French, but other than that, there were no other English speakers aside from Marshall and myself. This is integration Spanish.

We drive outside the city and seem to be going through woods and up and down really steep hills as we approach the house. The Jeep has a DVD screen in the front and it’s blaring a taped concert of Guns and Roses. Fitting enough, ‘Welcome to the Jungle’ is playing as we drive.

We get out and the house is on a hilltop overlooking the lake, stereotypical in every way, a big pool sitting in between the two. We celebrated Festival Hipica with this interesting crowd in the picturesque location, catching a ride back into town at the end of the night.

We woke up the next day and moved hotels to a nicer one right off the square. We were happy to see big and comfortable beds. We found a gringo breakfast, explored the vibrant local markets, and relaxed in our place early afternoon watching the Olympics and getting ready for the horse parade.

Essentially the parade was the same gig as the previous day except horses were everywhere. People rode up and down the parade route showcasing the animal and themselves. We tried to find a couple for us to ride but knowing now, that would have not been smart.

I previously mentioned the overkill of senses at this festival. I don’t know how the horses put up with it. The truth is some didn’t. Like the previous day, the parade routes were not just for the animals and riders. All the other riff raff walked with and through, causing massive congestion. To top it off, riders made their horses ‘dance’, where the horse prances, slamming their feet on the cobbled roads, not only slipping frequently, but coming close to pedestrians feet and legs.

I don’t think I’ve ever been afraid of horses, but in this case, they were close, they were out of their element, and it was wild to watch. Marshall and I found a couple of seats at a café on the route and watched the chaos ensue ringside for most of the afternoon, taking pictures and watching people. Reggaeton music was blaring in both directions, people were dancing, drinking, and being merry with the horses infused in it all.

Afterwards, we headed to the outdoor disco and it was here that my wallet was yanked. Because of the uncertainty of this trip, I had planned ahead in case something like this happened, so the aftershock wasn’t terrible. I had a travel tie up folder that I kept most of the admin of this trip, including my passport, back at the hotel. About a week ago, sometime in Costa Rica, I emptied the contents of my wallet of everything except my driver’s license and debit card. So in this case, I lost those and a little cash, so it wasn’t that upsetting.

What was upsetting was simply the feeling of being had, the vulnerability that most people experience when something like this happens.

I was up at the bar and the place was crowded, dark and loud. When I left I became sandwiched in between three people. My hands were up in the air holding the drinks, I wasn’t making eye contact with people, and I remember thinking to myself, ‘do you feel your wallet?’ I did. I thought about it again. Suddenly the traffic jam released and I made it to open ground. I felt down to check for the wallet and it was gone. I looked back at the scene for remnants of people near me, but couldn’t determine anything. They got me. They hand off so quickly that even if I did recognize, they would not have the wallet on them by then.

I told Marshall and he said, “Don’t let this ruin your night.” It wasn’t. Fortunately, it won’t affect the rest of my trip either.

Overall, two nights in Granada were hot. Nicaragua is hot. Book your tickets down now.

One thing I’ve noticed about Nicaragua so far is that I’ve seen no begging. Granted you have the handicraft street vendors, stray dogs, and taxi driver’s soliciting your attention, but no pesky children running around asking for a dollar like you do in other touristy, less developed places of the world. I suppose it’s a sign this place hasn’t been tainted by tourism (or maybe it’s just the culture) and I hope it stays that way, but by the beauty and potential of this area, along with the low costs, I don’t see it staying remote and untouched for very long.

Last night we arrived into San Juan Del Sur, which is a great little town that if I had known, would have skipped the expense of France and come here for the spring to learn Spanish and surf. It’s a gem of a find. The beachfront is riddled with restaurants and little bars so it’s not so lazy, but is a good mix at this stage. We found a place run by an expat couple that has a neat ambiance on the beach with an open porch to hear the crashing waves, swinging chairs to relax and geckos crawling on the wooden rafters. They were having an open mic night so we stuck around after chowing local grub to be entertained. (Mental note, I have to learn guitar and a few songs for situations like so. Mental note 2, No I don’t.)

During the open mic night, this long-haired, surfer guy stood up and sang a few songs and jammed with the owner, who was on bass guitar and they were actually really good. We seem to think the songs were original and I would venture to say he has a possible career ahead of him if he wanted. When he stood back up for the encore, he took his shirt off to sing and Marshall leans over and comments, “The music definitely sounds better with his shirt off”, for which I agreed. He fed the masculinity act by making comments in deep accents in between songs like, “Are you not entertained?”, which was a pretty funny Gladiator reference at the time. We were entertained, in a completely comfortable with your sexuality kind of way.

After the place wound down, we waddled over (we’re both short guys) to the town’s only discotec to see what that was all about and were further entertained with some large, hairy arm pitted local girls dancing with the door man/security guard, who had a beer in one hand and an AK-47 in the other. The place picked up with a mix of travelers and locals and the music switched between the reggae-ton Latin beat beats and Western dance stuff and generally we had a good time strobe light dancing with 80 cent beers and five dollar girls. Kidding.

At one point in the night I lost Marshall, but randomly found him exploring on a rickshaw headed home, when I exited the club, which was fairly entertaining and picture worthy.

Today we went surfing at Playa Maderas, which is a hot surfing location in the area. It was a bumpy 30-minute drive out from our base and we caught a ride with an old cabellero in his 1970s, barely ticking, beater of a pick-up truck. This diesel purred like a chain saw and bounced us around real nice as we made our way north to the beach. The seats were old worn leather, the glove compartment was tied shut with insulated electrical wire and the windows had to be rolled up and down with pliers. She was a beauty. He drove both ways and stayed with us for the afternoon, watching our stuff as we surfed for the low price of $10. We tipped him well.

(I’m a big fan of direct foreign investment, or stimulating the local economy, so unless I feel I’m getting cheated for the value of the service or good, I rarely bargain hard. I suppose that’s in direct conflict with my desire to keep a place unspoiled by tourism, but so be it.)

When we finished surfing (for which the tiny beach was again filled with destination surfers), we went to the only hut on the beach and bought a cold Coke to wash the saltwater blues away. They serve Coke out of bottles here and it’s a collective agreement between most people I know that Coke in bottles is far superior to Coke in cans. It was nice to enjoy that cold and refreshing Coke (shameless plug), wind down, and watch the remaining surfers do their thing.

Afterwards, we walked over to the truck and compadre has his hammock out, tied between trees, and was reading a book. I know I have issues when I mistakenly thought the book was “The Game” when it was actually The Bible. For those who don’t know, The Game is a book about picking up girls and is in a leather-bound, bible looking format. Why I would think this old guy would be reading that book, here in this nook, is beyond me. I suppose I’ve fallen off the deep end.

We left La Fortuna for the border about noon and made it about 5pm. Other than Mexico and a few small borders in Eastern Europe, I don’t remember a time I had to cross a major border in a far off land. It’s an experience in itself. I would have published pictures for your entertainment but I remember that in Sudan taking pictures of anything official is a big no-no so I figured I’d play it safe in Nicaragua. (Granted, I secretly wouldn’t mind a trip to jail in a foreign place so I can get on the tv show, Locked up Abroad, and tell a good blog story, but I won’t openly seek it.)

We arrived at the border and exited our taxi and were immediately welcomed by a friendly Nica bloak who wanted to assist us through the process and taxi us to our next destination. When making decisions on what to do in this situation, my rule is generally simple in that I allow him to work his magic at his own discretion, giving no indication of reciprocation until I believe he is worth the effort. In this case our friend was great.

Most people cross this border in buses or cars, which have specific exit and entry steps that they’re headed through. On foot it’s a whole other beast and we felt that having Jose (his name) show us exactly where to go, what to fill out, how to pay, etc was a real benefit to our stress level, which tends to accentuate when your hot, lost, confused, luggage-strained and on high alert.

To give you an idea of this border crossing, 18-wheeler trucks were lined and parked for what seemed like miles back. I can only imagine what that bureaucracy entails. Cars were basically the same. Kids, animals, vendors, and general chaos ensued through the whole hot and dusty procession of exiting CR and then walking the 100 meters to the Nicaraguan entry side. There were no lines or signs of direction, only people, lots of people, many of whom were looking worn.

Jose navigated us to the remotest of buildings and processed us through, even spotting us the cash to enter. He snapped fingers at people and they brought receipts, he carried our luggage, and then piled us into his little souped up taxi car and drove us to San Juan Del Sur. We paid $30 a piece to minimize and efficiently navigate this whole process, including taxi fare to a town 45km away, and collectively agreed life was good.