Island Time

Getting through Managua the second time was a breeze. Recalling my first experience of the city, I was apprehensive about diving into the urban chaos of the capital again. Luckily, at the first gas station that I stopped at there was a helpful guy working the pumps who had a map and the blessed ability to give clear directions. In twenty minute I was through the city and back on the highway.

Having left Poneloya just after dawn, I was able to travel most of the way back to Rivas in the relative cool of the morning. With traffic light most of the way I was making good time. Just past Granada I came upon an intersection with a few houses scattered along the roadside. Slowing down to allow for any unexpected pedestrian traffic, I was thinking what a smooth trip it had been when an old man, teetering along the shoulder on a bicycle, suddenly decided to cross the road in front of me. There was no way to avoid him; my choice was to hit him and crash, or just crash. The front wheel locked up as I hit the brakes hard and the bike went down, tossing me over the handlebars. Looking up as I lay on my back, I saw the old man peddle away without so much as a glance backward in my direction. I couldn't help laughing. Checking myself for damage, no blood, breaks or abrasions were relealed. My hands had broken my fall and the right arm was sore, but it didn't feel serious. Barely a week old, my little Yamaha had earned its first battle scars. There was now a scratch on the front fender and the tip of the handlebar had been torn up a bit, but otherwise there was no harm done. I pushed it back up onto its wheels, threw a leg over the saddle and rode on.

Back in Rivas, I turned towards Lake Nicaragua and the small port town of San Jorge. Ferries run from the docks there to the island of Ometepe several times a day. I spent the hour passage sitting in the sun, watching the spectacular island slowly approach, with its two volcano cones topped with clouds that looked like picture hats. It was an image out of a science fiction story.

Aboard the ferry were mostly locals returning from shopping excursions in Rivas, with a few backpackers mixed in. While wandering the decks I had the chance to meet a few expats who are working on the island. Chris Pratt is a young agronomist from the United States who is helping the local farmers increase their yields and experiment with new crop types. Tall and wiry, with curly, sand coloured hair and beard, he wore the expat uniform of t-shirt, baggy shorts and flip flops. Chris is a lanky bundle of energy and talked non-stop through the crossing, providing me with a useful overview of the island and what would be worth seeing. A cheerful Australian blonde in her late twenties, Maggie, had given up a career in marketing to take up an often frustrating ambition to build an eco-resort on the island. After two years of work, she is still a year away from opening for business, but enjoying a life less ordinary on the island.

Mayagalpa is a small and quite forgettable little port town where the ferry docks. Within a few minutes of landing I was motoring down the only stretch of paved road on the island. My right arm was aching fiercely now, having worsened steadily since my fall, and I need a place to stop and tend to it. I found a little hotel with cabins by the water and filled a plastic bag with ice at the bar for my hand. As I lay in a hammock reading and icing my wrist, I wondered just how much of an inconvenience this injury was going to be. In the end it made typing a one hand job and occupied my time so much that I have not posted here in almost three weeks.