Leon, Nicaragua

We´ve managed to make it from the northern border of Honduras all the way to Nicaragua in three days. Lots has happened I suppose, but its been such a whirlwind that its hard to string events together in any sort of logical fashion.
Chad felt better on the 10th, so we hit up the ruins at Copan that same day. They were incredible. We spent a long time staring up at the hieroglyphic stairway, all covered in shadow from the massive canvas awning that covers the entire height of the pyramid. Every few dozens steps, a massive, gargoyle-like statue protruded out from the stairway. I wish I could read the hieroglyphics and get a better idea of the 700 years of history spelled out on the staircase, but that would probably take another degree and an additional lifetime, which I unfortunately do not have. For now I am content with my slightly ill-informed appreciation of the sites beauty and scale.
On the whole, I think Tikal may have set the bar too high for Mayan ruins - I can`t imagine any site having such a dumbfounding, fantasy-like effect on me.
The next day, it was off to Tegucigalpa on the nicest bus I have ever seen, let alone ridden on. Two movies and nine air-conditioned hours later, we were snapped back into reality. The bus dropped us off in Comayaguela, the ¨bad¨part of a city in which no area could be described as safe. As our cab headed east across the river, we passed transvestites, hookers, and drunks and junkies passed out on the street. Reminded me of Atlanta a bit.
Rain had started to fall by the time we reached the hostel, which turned out to be full for the night. So we carried our packs down the street through the light rain, while the locals stared from the windows of passing cars and busses. Half of them were probably thinking ¨those gringos are gonna get robbed¨while the other half probably thought about getting off the bus so they could rob us themselves before somebody else got to us.
But luck was with us, and the only robbery we experienced was the price we had to pay when we finally found a room in the fourth hotel we had checked. We moved back to the hostel, called Tobacco Road, the next day.
Tobacco Road was a neat place, with the only dormitory beds in Tegus. When Tom, the American ex-pat owner, wrote down our names in the log book, he said ¨great names! you guys sound like a pair of travelling cowboys!¨ We had a good laugh at that.
After dinner with our dormmates Dave and Mary, we hit up the hostel bar, a fully stocked place that ran on the honor system. I played bartender all night, and we had a good bit of fun. Then Martha showed up.
Martha was a pitifully intoxicated 46 year old local woman who first spent half an hour butchering Beatles songs at the top of her lungs. Then she decided she was going to take at least one of us home with her. Over the next hour she systematically moved from one of us to the next, whispering in slurred Spanish how great her house was, trying to convince us to leave with her. The please ran from ¨I have marijuana¨to ¨my yard is so big you can play baseball in it! And I have a mango tree!¨It was sad, but we were, of course, nearly doubled over with laughter the entire time. Eventually the police showed up (!) to drag her out of there, and even they laughed out loud while she clung around Dave´s neck in a death grip, saying he could have all the mangos he wanted if he would just come back and spend the night. A unique evening, if nothing else.
With Good Friday, and the subsequent three day shut-down of all businesses and services in Central America, only one day away, we faced a choice: Stay in Tegus and wait out Semana Santa in the big, crazy city, or make a foolish attempt to leave the country on ¨Good Thursday¨, when less than half of the busses are operating and every person, in every town, in every country, is trying to travel simultaneously to visit family for the Easter weekend.
We made the foolish choice, and over the next ten hours we road two taxis, one chicken bus, three ¨shuttle¨busses, and crossed the Nicaraguan border on a bicycle.
This entry is getting long, and I swear I will wrap it up soon.
By the time we reached Chinandenga in NW Nicaragua we were totally famished, as we hadn´t had time to eat despite being up since 7 AM. At the bus terminal there, a dirty, piss soaked stretch of asphalt, Chad sat on the curb and opened a can of tuna. Within 30 seconds, a crowd of nearly a dozen had gathered around him, watching intently as he opened the can. It was like watching the zombies surround Barbara in the Night of the Living Dead. A homeless man crawled up and laid his head down in the puddle of tuna-water Chad had drained onto the asphalt, mumbling incoherently but obviously begging Chad for a few bites of his food.
And wouldn´t you know it, Chad scooped a big chunk of tuna onto a cracker and handed it over to the guy, and proceeded to share most of his meal that way. It was one of those rare, crazy moments where you figure out there is some good in humanity after all, and even the local women selling plastic bags full of drinking water to passengers on passing busses commented to me how nice my friend was, and that he must be a very good person to know. Amen to that.
So now here we are, in Hostel Bigfoot, just in time for one of the most famous Easter celebrations in Central America. It's hot as hell here, but the city is beautiful and Nicaraguans seem to be as friendly as Guatemalans, which means they're always willing to chat or help with directions. I like it here a good deal.