August 21st, 2009: Shanti Home, New Delhi

I have a confession to make:

I do not enjoy flying.

I believe I have spent about a week of my life in the air, and I've gathered enough personal experience to reach that conclusion.

The destinations, however, usually make the journey worthwhile.

An elderly African American gentleman drove my shuttle into Newark after I had a nervous goodbye lunch with my Mom. New Jersey seems to be all but destroyed in terms of its auto infrastructure. Standstill traffic afforded me views of homeless people asking commuters to spare what they could for a thankful blessing, and young men selling bottled water for a dollar.

I pulled up at Newark International about three hours after my departure from New Haven. Handing the driver a tip, I pulled my heavy bags up onto the curb.

Ah, the Continental International Terminal at Newark Airport. A marvel of creatively inept engineering. As I stood in the check-in line, a German family walked by, apparently confused by the airport's layout. A young girl in the family followed behind, looking very tired, and carrying a poorly outfitted Ken doll (its clothes were hanging open and your could see its shiny ass).

After a confusing check-in process and invasive security screenings, I was good to go - I reunited with Alexandra in the terminal. She looked tired from her CA to CT flight. Only 14.5 more hours to go! We waited for the plane, talking excitedly about our plans. We decided that we should stay awake for the entire flight so as to avoid jet lag (we would arrive at our first hotel, Shanti Home, at around 10:00 PM). I had no problem with this, as I knew I wouldn't be able to sleep if I had wanted to.

We watched movies and television in our little seats, avoiding blood clots and pressure ulcers by shifting in our seats uncomfortably. It was mind numbing.

Finally, we arrived in New Delhi. Our entertainment screens were forced out of our control for a public service announcement about what to do when we arrive at the airport. A lone business traveler, apparently the only passenger on his plane, walked into the terminal, breezing through customs, and easily finding his bag on the conveyor (coincidentally the only bag present). He then leisurely strolled outside to find a single cab waiting for him on the street. New Delhi airport seemed like a well-managed, squeaky clean and sparsely populated haven for travelers.

Needless to say it would take a moronic suspension of disbelief for me to take this video as an accurate representation of the madness that awaited us. Ensuring that all of my effects were secure on my person, I stood, stretched, and shuffled to the exit of the plane.

We quickly noticed that the airport was far more crowded and smelly than the video seemed to indicate. Our luggage took quite a while to arrive on the conveyor and, after changing a little money (which is a long, laborious, and complicated process in India for some reason involving various forms and calls to the President), we finally got into our driver's car on the crowded, hectic curbside.

Automobiles of all kinds cluttered the pavement, angled awkwardly without any sense or reason. Horns sounded proudly and lights flashed as our little van dodged bicycles, trucks, pedestrians, small cars, motorbikes, and trucks. We finally make it out onto the road after some aggressive driving moves.

But that was just the beginning.

What followed was an hour long stop-and-go madhouse. Most of the roads were in fine condition. They were modern blacktop roads with fewer potholes than american ones, hedged by tall yellow-striped curbs. Though there were clearly marked dividing lines in the road, every driving rule imaginable (except perhaps which side of the road to drive on, and indeed even this was flexible) was being broken before my eyes. If we were on a three-lane road, there were five cars and a few motorcycles between them. Whole families piled onto tiny motorbikes and weaved dangerously in and out of the crawling mass of vehicles. Horns honked endlessly. I soon discovered that, unlike in America, car horns are merely a method for motorist Indians to say "Hey, I'm here!" Larger cars and trucks, in fact, frequently have signs painted on their bumpers and backs that say "Blow Horn" or "Horn Please". Our driver complained at length that the Indian government did not adequately control and enforce traffic laws, and that it often took over an hour to travel just one kilometer!

Finally, we made it to Shanti Home after endless flurries of hand-painted signs, slums, lights, and confusion, my tired mind fading in and out of consciousness. Passing through the gates, there was an unbelievable difference between the interior of the hotel and the squalor of the street - far worse than I had seen (or smelled) in Nicaragua. After check-in and a glass of sweet lime (a traditional drink of welcoming) we made it to our room, bolted the door, and collapsed into our bed.

We were poised for a great adventure.

Graduation from Wesleyan; Summer Research 2009

I would prefer to focus this blog on my adventures, and while the following events may be more exciting than the lives of some, I'd like to summarize them briefly instead to of including the details of the more mundane aspects of my life.

Spring break finished all to quickly, and we all went back to school. Things continued much as they had before break... I continued work on my documentaries, continued having fun with friends, continued to photograph most everything I saw. I finished all of my schoolwork, and the end of the year ratcheted up into a massive celebration for the seniors. Everything came in a blur; my final a cappella concert, end of the year parties, and finally, graduation itself. All to rapidly my closest friends began to pop out of existence, and I wondered if I had fully appreciated my undergraduate years. Perhaps I should I have done things differently. Perhaps I missed out on meeting many people that would have enriched my life manyfold. Oh well, it was great while it lasted.

Without resting I immediately began my field work. Caterpillar sampling is one of my favorite times of the year... full time work in the field, hot and dirty, insect bites and myriad discoveries in the form of interesting fungi and unique forms of weevils and other small creatures. Best of all, the wonderful people I worked with. Mike, Izaac, the two Joshes... they were awesome, of course. It's a funny thing that happens to people who work together in the field. Inside jokes and little skits pile up quickly, and by the end of the season we basically create a new language to speak to each other. Like crazy people. Very hard to describe, but incredibly fulfilling.

Oh to live and work in the natural spaces of the world, to explore and capture what little we have left. It's my dream above all else.

Field season came to an end, and after a frenzied rush to enter an analyze date for the Hughes presentations, we were finished. Time for me to leave...

An opportunity had arisen for my sister and myself; a wedding was to be held in Chennai, India, and we had been invited. Not ones to pass up a grand adventure, we began planning our big trip...

Final Nicaragua post...

March 15, 2009

It was a decidedly low key day as we prepared for our departure. We spent most of our time up at the Pelican Eyes, lounging by the pool and relaxing, enjoying breakfast (really good breakfast).

On our way home, we saw a shark dog laying in the middle of the road. Though cars went by frequently and he was in direct, intense sunlight, the dog refused to move. Worried that it had been hit by a car and was unable to move itself to safety, we stood by and watched. We were concerned about the dog, but did not want to be mauled by the beast if it was unfriendly.

A boy on a bicycle approached and passed the dog, nearly hitting it. We watched in horror as the boy did several lazy circles around the dog, almost hitting it multiple times. Finally the boy kicked the dog. It immediately sprang up, uninjured. We left for home at once, cursing the stupid animal for wasting our time.

After packing a bit, we went to the shore in search of souvenirs. I bought two bracelets, and as I paid for a nice t-shirt I heard a loud thump nearby and was suddenly splashed by something. A coconut had fallen just a couple of feet from where I stood, hitting the ground with skull-crushing force! Lucky I guess.

We enjoyed dinner (langosta a la plancha) at the first restaurant we had eaten at on the first day, and then we went to Republika and Iguana's to say goodbye to all of our new friends. After drinks and conversation about renewable energy and the development of Nicaragua, it was time to go home and go to bed early. We had paid our rent, and were ready to leave early the next morning.

Laying in the hot, windowless room, I waited for sleep to overtake me. It was inconceivable that I was going home already. On the whole, this trip was an incredible opportunity, not only for recreation and silliness, but for important life experiences. Never before had I seen such destitution firsthand, nor had I seen the destruction and exploitation of a native people and environment for largely wasteful and unsustainable "development". Of course, I had heard of such things, seen documentaries, even seen analogous situations in Australia, but this was entirely different. I do not know what will happen in Nicaragua, but I have a hunch that it will benefit the rich rather than the people who now struggle to live here.

The degree to which I take my comfortable and privileged American life for granted was also thrown into sharp relief. Never do I have to worry about cut electricity or water, or even where to get water to drink that won't make me violently ill. These are matters of daily concern for the citizens of Nicaragua. They must also fight malnutrition, find medical care somehow (if they even can), and earn a living in a society where it is very difficult to get an education, compete with outsiders, or lead any sort of traditional lifestyle. SJDS, for example, would not survive if it were not for tourism... it is not a typical town in Nicaragua.

But I digress. Life is comparatively sweet and easy in America.

My final conclusion is one I have reached before, but it is certainly reinforced: I must see as much of the world as I can as if it will not exist tomorrow. While I am young and able, I must continue my travels and learn all I can.

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End of the Nicaragua entries.

March 14, 2009

It was a lazy day.

I took some time to get my effects in order and plan my return home. I visited the internet café and bought a "Federal Witness Protection Program" shirt at the thrift store (~$1.50... they don't call it a thrift store for nothing). I'm dangerously low on funds, so I decided to forgo a zipline canopy tour in favor of the means to eat for the next two days. I relaxed and updated my journal, took a long over-due shower (hot water was working... wow) and slept for a while.

By the time we were ready to "be real people again" (this is a common Wesleyan University term amongst my friends and myself), it was the late afternoon. We headed over to La Panga for some fish and chips. The name of the restaurant had become something of an inside joke over the past few days. Strangely enough, Poutine (french fries with cheese and gravy) was on the menu, clearly displaying the Canadian influences to culture in the area.

We enjoyed fried calamari and fish and chips, admired the interesting seafood-themed murals on the wall, and danced in our seats to the excellent music that was playing. Life was good.

Shortly after, we decided it would be a good idea to go for dinner... again. We had heard a lot about the local Parilla fare in the area, but hadn't tasted it yet. Walking down the streets we came upon a large outdoor barbeque piled high with different meats and tortillas. Basically an under-the-table temporary restaurant operation, Parillas are popular with locals because they serve a ton of food for very little money. We soon found ourselves in front of huge plates of steak, chicken, pinto gallo, rice, tortillas, and cabbage. Yum. We left full and happy.

Night fell and we visited Republika for some buckets of rum and coke (~$4 each) and some cards. It was a silly night, and we ended up at Iguana's.

March 13, 2009

Today we set of for Granada in what is affectionately known here as a "chicken bus" - a brightly painted decommissioned school bus onto which have been installed metal racks for luggage and cargo. All manner of people ride these buses in Nicaragua; for about $0.25 a ride, they're an incredibly economical way to travel. During my ride I saw young and old, professionals and poor, school children and policemen. Plastered around the large rear-view mirror in the front of each bus were collages of Christian memorabilia - depictions of Jesus, passages from the bible, and amusing slogans ("Jesus es mi mejor amigo").

As we rushed down the bumpy, dusty roads of the countryside, the bus reached critical mass when every inch, standing room included, was occupied. The driver swerved around cars, passed other buses, "creatively" expediting our travels (probably dangerous and illegal driving, but hey, what else is new). All of this seemed like a matter of course for the locals on board. Those who boarded the bus from the road were forced to run along with the bus and jump on while it was still in motion - the bus seemed never to stop for any reason whatsoever.

Peering through the scratched, filthy windows I was greeted with the vast expanses of the country. Strange trees rushed past my window - archaic-looking gymnosperms, trees that looked to be covered in moss, and most surprisingly, it was not uncommon to see trees with colonies of (parasitic?) desert cactus growing on them! I enjoyed views of vast mountains and plains, forests and dry areas. Some places seemed untouched by humans, and others were appallingly polluted and squalid.

As we passed small settlements, I saw more of what I had seen elsewhere: small buildings cobbled together from bits of wood and sheets of metal and plastic. Trash, and lots of it. In many areas, pristine billboards rose high above the settlements, advertising the brand new apartment complexes and homes for the wealthy that would inevitably displace the people living there. Encroaching development, not empowerment, of the the poor seemed inevitable. Nicaragua, it seems, is poised for a wide-scale Trail of Tears type situation. Where the natives will go once their land has been stolen, no one knows. But one thing is for certain: it is more profitable (hence more likely) to steal their land than to improve their standard of living.

We reached Rivas at the halfway point of our journey, where we were required to switch buses. The unwieldy bus weaved through the crowded market, past stands of fresh produce and herds of taxis, rickshaws and pedestrians. Our driver used his horn very liberally as we made our way to the center.

Finally reaching the central station, we jumped off of the bus and explored the marketplace. Trash littered the streets, and the air was afoul with unsavory smells. All around, vendors and taxi drivers yelled and cat-called, soliciting their services or attempting to peddle their wares. We bought a few interesting snacks - mangoes, empanadas, tostones, churritos - all of which cost far less than $1. We escaped the market and boarded the second bus, bound for Granada...

...Or so we thought. The market, as it turns out, is far more insistent and stubborn in Nicaragua than anyplace I have seen. Vendors began boarding the bus in droves, calling out what they were selling and making their rounds. Chicken and tortillas, sodas, strange drinks in plastic bags, ice cream, you name it. They streamed through the bus even as it was leaving, and the last vendor continued to advertise her wares as she jumped from the moving bus.

Once again, we were off. Grenada was just half an hour away, and we were all excited for the new sights, incredible markets, and delicious foods that surely awaited us.

It was the intense heat that hit us first. Granada is an inland city, and as such, there is no constant sea breeze as can be felt in San Juan Del Sur. We quickly slathered ourselves in sun lotion so as to avert cooking in the unforgiving sun, and immediately began looking for a restaurant to fill our empty bellies. Roy, Natasha's older expatriate friend had recommended a little place "just by the church" that sold "huge, cheap burritos". He couldn't remember the name of the place, but he told us that it was an obscure little hole-in-the-wall that only the locals went to.

He was right. It was so obscure, we couldn't find it at all. We finally settled on a poshly decorated Mediterranean restaurant and enjoyed cheeses, sausages and smoked meats in the shade and relative peace of the indoors.

Suddenly, a conflagration of drums began down the street, approaching us slowly. Curious, we peered through the windows, trying to see what all the fuss was about. Soon, a ragtag group of four people, two on drums and two more dancing about in bizarre costumes, appeared at the end of the street. They had noticed us, and jumped at the opportunity to perform for affluent-looking foreign kids.

The men with drums came directly to our window and, while creating an earsplitting racket, called out various dances and impersonations for the performers. One wore the costume of some kind of ten foot woman with a pink colonial dress (creepy), and they other was a two foot man with a three foot head (creepier... don't even ask how this is possible). The deafening drums were intolerable and continued until the "performance" ended. Grinning, the performers held out their hats for tips, which we gladly paid for the sweet silence that followed the departure of this weird troupe.

The exchange rate has a very strange sociological/psychological effect on people. I had noticed this fact before, of course, but the end of this meal in particular made it truly worthy of note. Currently, the Nicaraguan cordoba is equivalent to approximately $0.05. As a result, we regularly deal with bills that amount to thousands of cordobas, which seems like a great deal of money coming from a country where the base level currency still has considerable financial weight. Therefore, we tend to bicker about small amounts of money ($1-5), quibble about tips that are tiny in comparison to ones in the United States, and paying the check is always something of a shouting match. But I digress.

We left the restaurant and walked to the center square. We saw the huge, yellow church - garish on the outside, but sparse and simple on the inside. The whole city reminded me very much of Spain - the layout and architecture clearly was in the Spanish colonial style. To the right of the entrance to the church, a huge number of school children were doing exercises in the scalding heat of the sun. Next to the church was a large pink building with white columns - the building which Natasha believed to be the infamous marketplace. It wasn't, however. After asking around, we quickly discovered that the actual marketplace was in a different nearby town. Rats.

Despite the confusion and the short exploration of a vast and diverse city, we still had a pretty decent time. Tensions were running high between some members of the group however; Patrick, who had left that morning, had a calming, balancing effect until that point, and we were starting to feel the effects of his absence.

We decided to cut our losses and make our way back to the buses, so as not to miss the last bus to Rivas. By the time we had gotten there, it had left long ago, and we were forced to take another bus to a different city before boarding yet another bus bound for Rivas. It was a long and confusing journey, and by the time night fell, we reached the Rivas marketplace that had been bustling just six hours before.

It was completely deserted. No vendors, no people, and most importantly, no buses. We were stuck in Rivas, in the dark, all alone.

"Taxi taxi?" A man stepped out of the dark and pointed to his white four-door. Normally, these were folk we would ignore ("No gracias"), but we sure were glad he was there. He was willing to take us all back for just $20, and though he probably felt like he was overcharging us, we would have gladly given him much more.

We piled into the tiny car, four in the three-person back seat, and Reuben, being the largest of us all, took the front. Like a golden retriever he stuck his head out the window, admiring the stars. Though he urged us to do the same, we were too cramped to do anything but lay back and look up through the dirty back window. The heavens unfolded. Half an hour later we arrived at Casa Oro, safe and sound.

In all, it was certainly one of the most fascinating journeys of my life.

We attempted to enjoy dinner at the Disco Bar (Hamborguesa con Queso), and waited for Karaoke to start. When it did, however, we quickly found out that things were done a little differently in Nicaragua. The bar filled with burly drunken men, who crooned sappy Spanish songs without skill as the words moved across the screen. It was all a bit much for be, so I left and decided to call it a night.

March 12, 2009

The day began with an ill=concieved plan to hike up to the old SJDS lighthouse. We walked down the beach and past the harbor, finding a steep path through a derelict neighborhood. Trash was strewn all about, as in most undeveloped (and developed, for that matter) areas of Nicaragua. Dogs barked fiercely at as through shoddy, improvised fences as e mounted the hill, finally finding several unmarked paths. Rather than getting lost in this rather unwelcoming area, we decided to head back.

Our second plan worked much better. While Reuben, Lizzie, Patrick and Natasha went ATVing, Heather and I decided to visit the graveyard at the edge of town. We walked, the sun beating down on us as we passed a demolished school van.

The monuments were colorful, garish even. Plastic flowers impaled the hunched soil of the graves and were strewn about the monuments. I suppose they don't require replacement, which makes them a logical choice. Also present were the graves of the poor, barely or totally unmarked.

We returned and prepared ourselves for the evening's final adventure: a fishing booze cruize of the SJDS coastline. Though I didn't manage to catch anything, it was fun to go out on the water anyway. It reminded me of my childhood summers on the lake by my house, fishing for trout as the sun set.

We ate at Iguana's, and then entertained a throng of new friends at the apartment with Flor de Caña and a rousing card game. After that was the Crazy Crab Dance Club, at which I stayed for a little while, but soon left to catch the breeze and clear my head.

March 11th, 2009

Heather and I woke up early to make reservations for horseback riding. We joined Natasha for a western-style breakfast at El Gato Negro. After wandering around town looking for souvenirs and reading by the beach, we headed for La Casa Oro, where we were to be picked up for the tour.

A short ride by the cemetery and we found ourselves on a bumpy dirt road bordered by brightly painted ramshackle ranches. At our destination, we were greeted by Guillermo, our guide. He outfitted us with horses and we were on our way.

It had been a full 14 years since I had ridden a horse, and it was certainly an awkward endeavor. Being a slightly bony chap, the saddle was a tad uncomfortable, and being out of practice, I was clearly riding incorrectly. The result? A rather pronounced discomfort in my genital region. It took some getting used to, but sooner or later I more or less figured things out.

Down the dirt road we trotted, past small properties and houses, most of which had posted signs which read "Se Vende" (for sale).

The residences subsided as we entered more dense forests, crossing streams and climbing over rocks. My horse was a character, and it took some learning to figure out how to control it. Heather, a member of the Wesleyan Equestrian Team, stifled laughter as she attempted to give me some advice ("squeeze with your thighs, nudge with your heels and push down on the stirrups," she said, riding beside me elegantly).

Natasha, who also had little experience riding, seemed to be doing fine; that is, until we got to the beach. We followed our guide to a small, rocky area that was partially submerged by the rising tide--the only way to get to the adjacent beach. Directly in our path lay the dried remains of a gnarled tree, the branches reaching at our feet from the slippery rocks. Though the rest of our horses managed, Natasha's horse took a silly turn and ended up caught on the branch. Natasha's leg was pulled backwards as the horse continued forwards. As she fell, I thought she would break a leg at the very least... Her scream was quenched by the shallow waters, and as she was submerged, we held our breath.

A moment later, she bounded up from the water, checking herself for broken limbs and wounds. She was fine! After explaining this to our guide (who was profoundly concerned for Natasha's well-being), she got back on her horse and we continued onto the next beach. Natasha is a champion.

We eventually came to a steep incline, which continued up to an overgrown path. Up we went, and the trees and thicket eventually gave way to a precipice, from which we could see the entire bay. The vegetation was strange; like fried spaghetti, it was crunchy and tangled underfoot, about knee high. It reminded me of dodder, a parasitic plant. The trees were also strange--simple and modern (or archaic), and accompanied by groves of seaside cactus. I snapped some pictures and we continued on.

The vegetation became higher and denser, rubbing against our legs and feet. Exotic burrs and stickers covered the legs of my pants. As we made our way to a longer beach, the horses began to speed up, their shoeless hooves stomping the dusty ground. When we reached the sand, they increased their speed even further, and I held on for dear life as a rattled about on my saddle. It sure felt like a gallop, but Heather told me later that it was just a canter. Whatever it was, it felt really fast to me.

We took a quick break to climb on some seaside rocks, from which we could see the northern coast of Costa Rica. After a long while we returned to our horses, which were hitched under a stone ledge surrounded by millions of scurrying hermit crabs.

By the time we reached the ranch, a faint rainbow of colors was visible on the horizon, ushering in the golden light of sunset. Our bus was late, so we sat and enjoyed the shade of Guillermo's patio as we waited. After a while, Guillermo brought our a baby ocelot--and extremely cute mesoamerican cat. We took pictures and videos as the month-old cat stumbled awkwardly around and meowed. Its fur was soft and dense. Guillermo claimed it was an orphan and his family was taking care of it until it could support itself in the wild. Guillermo took the cat away after he found some one to drive us home in back of a pickup truck.

It was quite an experience; an incredible day.

March 10th, 2009

I woke up very early this morning. There was no real reason for this. A couple of hours later I caught breakfast with Patrick and Reuben, exchanging funny college stories. They went off to a surf lesson and I went back to bed.

A little while later I went back out to lunch with Lizzie, Heather and Natasha. After a grilled cheese and a banana shake, Heather and I headed off to climb the SJDS cliffs in search of the lord jesus christ.

Jesus was elusive. An enormous, unfinished statue stood waiting on the tallest cliff, with only a couple of hidden, small, winding and incredibly steep (practically vertical) roads leading in its direction. We wandered a bit before finding the pikeman who guarded the entrance to the comically pitched cobblestone road. The sun beat down on us as we toiled slowly up the giant hill, joking about the fact that cars would probably not be able to get up more easily that us. Along the way we discovered a double-helipad. Interesting.

Further up the hill we discovered a privileged view of Nacascola Bay and took some pictures. By this point I was almost sure we were heading in the wrong direction, but Heather suggested we look around the corner and see what was there.

It was jesus.

Up another steep hill and a very uneven set of cement stairs; we stood at the base of the enormous, unfinished statue. It was surrounded by scaffolding on which several workers were busily shaping and fitting its many pieces together. Directly in front was an enormous metal cross, painted white and covered with graffiti and rust. All around were pieces of the great plastic jesus, most prominently his two holy hands. The compound was surrounded by the most incredible view of the entire bay.

I noticed several entrances in the base of the statue, mostly filled with beams, tools, and other such things for construction. One, however, contained a numbered, scale model of the finished statue. I snapped a few quick photographs before one of the workers wandered in and angrily ushered me out the door. Heather and I got the message, and we left quickly.

After the long journey down the cliffs we stopped for ice cream at the Eskimo and joined everyone else up at the luxury pool. Our Penn State friends were also there; perhaps they were staying at the Pelican Eyes. A quick dip, and early (expensive) dinner, and it was back to the apartment for a long siesta. We finished the evening with drinks and cards.