OMETEPE

NIGARAUGA

Volcan Concepcion

It’s been said that the well-traveled person is a well-educated person.  Personal exposure to different places, cultures and languages broadens one’s horizons far beyond any study of these things.  The most critical benefit is the firsthand experience.  You eliminate the filters and make your own judgments.  You are in control of determining the reality, of deciding for yourself the worth of something.

I’ve learned this lesson over the last two years as our cruising has brought us to a part of the world known as the “CA4” – Guatemala, Honduras, El Salvador and Nicaragua.  Some of the “official” conclusions about this area would have you believe that these are countries to be ignored rather than explored. If we had allowed these predispositions to deter us, we would have missed out on some incredible opportunities.

The most startling example has to be Isla de Ometepe in Nicaragua.  Yes, Nicaragua, the land of Contras, Sandanistas, Ollie North and Daniel Ortega.  Well, you need to get out the old mental broom and sweep those cobwebs away. True, Orgeta has resurrected himself as president, but he’s supposed to be a “kinder, gentler” version.  It’s time to raise the old curtain to a fresh look at this intriguing country, particularly enchanting, welcoming Ometepe.

Located in Lake Nicaragua, Ometepe is one of the largest fresh water islands in the world. Its incredible landscape features two volcanoes, Concepcion and Maderas.  Thirty thousand people call her home. It takes effort to get there, but, very much like the prize at the end of a treasure hunt, the deeper the dig, the greater the reward.

“Once-in-a-lifetime” - Really

Our trek over to Ometepe started in a small community on the western shore of the lake called San Jorge.  Substantial car ferries make regularly scheduled crossings to the island four times a day.  In between, somewhat smaller lanchas provide transportation as well.  We were traveling with good friends Al and Linda Card and Kathleen Jones.  By the time we arrived in San Jorge it was about an hour before the next car ferry would leave.  Eager to get over to the island, the group decided to pay the fare and board one of the lanchas.  It seemed a reasonable thing to do. Hundreds of others appeared to be making the same choice. 

The lancha looked like a miniature ark constructed of wood so weathered and gray it might well have been around since Noah.  Huge ropes held it to the dock.  The creaking of the one against the other sounded like a couple of novices practicing the violin.  By the time we stepped on board, all of the deck space was pretty well taken.  Passengers were packed as tightly as a truckload of cattle, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee.  Al and Linda managed to squeeze into the one remaining small space just in front of the wheel house. John, Kathleen and I plodded through the throng, our bags snagging with every step, to a rickety, circular metal staircase that wrapped downward around the outside of the wheelhouse leading to an enclosed lower deck underneath.  As I made my way into the belly of the lancha, there was no need for trepidation. A snakelike procession of humanity streamed behind me.  I couldn’t retreat. The point of no return apparently happened the moment we purchased our tickets.

Just like above, people were packed into this space.  We claimed a spot right in the center near a stack of faded, mildewed life preservers casually slung in a haphazard pyramid.  I sat down on the preservers wondering to myself what possible good they could do if the boat should tip over.  John stood up beside me.  Kathleen perched on the floor across. 

There were large openings on either side of the hull with tarps tied above.  Once all the passengers boarded, a man worked his way between me and Kathleen.  He lifted up a huge chunk of the floor to reveal a hold below us.  Someone on the dock slid a plank through the portside opening which triggered a parade of cargo careening down.  For the next five minutes we watched 50 pound bags of flour and 15 gallon jugs of vegetable oil find their way to the hold until it was full.  The man closed the gap in the floor, the plank zoomed back out the opening, the captain throttled up the engine - time to cast off.

Simultaneously the boat both lurched and halted.  The engine strained mightily.  I couldn’t see very much from my vantage point.  The main view I had was through a portion of the portside opening, an image of mangled pilings held together by rusty nails all in support of the dock above.  It was enough though to determine that the lancha, way overloaded and over weight, was aground.  With each rev of the engine, the image never changed.

So here we were, a huddled mass of boat people clinging rigorously to our belongings, acknowledging each other with curious nods of the head, wide-eyed with the realization that we were stuck.  The thought of having to undo us all wasn’t amusing. I imagine this predicament happens more times than not.  The captain and his crew applied a few maneuvers which in their combined way set us free - all in a day’s work.

We slowly came away from the dock and cleared the bulkhead that had been buffering us from the wind coming across the lake.  The lancha turned to starboard and we headed towards Isla de Ometepe.

Lake Nicaragua is a very shallow lake.  Millions of years ago, it was actually a part of the Pacific Ocean until earthquakes and volcanic eruptions created the Pacific plain that separates the lake from the ocean today. Over time, with the infusion of water from 40 surrounding rivers, the saltwater gave way to fresh.  Species of fish trapped in the lake also evolved like the freshwater tarpon and swordfish.  But, it still remained shallow, and a shallow lake on a windy day in an old, rickety lancha makes for a rough ride.

As we headed over the water, we were broadside to the wind coming from the starboard side.  It didn’t take long for the boat to start lolling back and forth.  Every time it rolled to starboard or a wave hit, water ran onto our deck through the opening on that side like it was coming through a sieve.  In fact, it actually was.  There was only about five inches of hole-ridden freeboard above the water line. Everybody’s feet were getting wet and the poor people sitting on the floor were getting soaked.

One of the crew made his way to the starboard and released the tarp supposedly to impede the spray from the waves.  It did very little to stem the flow of water, but it shut out the view and stifled the flow of air through the compartment creating a claustrophobic effect.  Since I’m prone to motion sickness, this was not a good thing. I scanned the faces of the other passengers.  They all seemed to be dealing with the situation in their own way.

The only thing to do was stare out of the portside opening which blessedly remained uncovered giving me a focal point to counteract the rocking. My mind raced through the very real prospect of the boat finally tipping too far, throwing us all into the brink.  I seriously considered untying my tennis shoes and shedding them.  If I needed to swim to the surface through a horde of equally panicked bodies, I didn’t want them to weigh me down.  Fortunately, this mental preoccupation absorbed the time.  In about an hour, the motion of the boat eased, the crew member returned to raise the tarp and I could see that we had reached the leeward side of the island which sheltered us from the wind. 

Slipping into the newly opened portal like a picture postcard was the stunning image of Volcan Concepcion against a brilliant blue sky, its conical pinnacle snaring soft white clouds as if to be spinning cotton candy.  As we came closer to shore, the beaches appeared with a thriving swarm of activity - women washing clothes, children frolicking, vacationers strolling, even cattlemen herding bulls and heifers from one place to another.

The lancha slowed to a crawl as the captain brought us into Moyogalpa, one of the larger communities on Ometepe.  The thump of the fenders against the dock signaled our arrival which produced a collective movement from everybody on board, gathering up their belongings, jockeying for position to hasten their exit. We squeezed back toward the stairway sort of like fitting a size 10 foot into a size 5 shoe.  One minute John would be right behind me, the next nowhere in sight.  Finally, a single file formed and we made it off the boat intact with all of our bags.  

I was certainly glad to be back safely on land and, as I walked away from the dock and the lancha, I thought to myself - “Well, I’ll NEVER do that again!”  It gave a whole new meaning to the phrase “Once-in-a-lifetime experience.”

To be continued…..