La Isla de Ometepe en Lago de Nicaragua

As you might notice, I have no pictures in this post. It is a tragedy because Ometepe is a unique, dramatically beautiful place, an island made of two tall volcanoes in the middle of a lake that stretches from the Costa Rican border to Granada and beyond. It is also a tragedy because instead of ending this story with a description of the kindness and openness of the vast majority of Nicaraguans, it will end with a description of a less savory one.

Of course, using a word like tragedy to describe losing a camera in a country -- I think the second poorest in the Western Hemisphere -- that is still suffering from the aftermath of a brutal civil war, and where begging kids, old women, and skeletal dogs sometimes simultaneously contend for your sympathy is a disgusting exaggeration. It makes me feel even worse that in a place with so much loss I can't stop thinking about eight hundred missing photos.

The journey from Los Chiles in Costa Rica to San Carlos in Nicaragua was our first border crossing by river boat. The banks held an explosion of jungly foliage doubled by reflection in the slow water, and we saw birds, monkeys, and turtles roosting at their respective levels in the greenery. San Carlos is a fairly important town being at the base of Lake Nicaragua where the San Juan River leaves it for the Caribbean, 120 miles away, but it would be a lot more important, or perhaps wiped off the face of the earth, if the U.S. had followed through with the plan to build the isthmian canal there.

We spent the night in San Carlos, and despite stone-faced hostility from the proprietors of the flophouse hotels, we met a lot of friendly people in town including a man who owned a little breakfast joint and hosted a political television show, and a tippling doctor who wept describing the difficulties he faces. He invited us to visit his hospital, which we did the following day, finding him so swamped with patients that he could only spend a few minutes with us.

In the afternoon we boarded a ferry for a twelve hour ride north over Lake Nicaragua. We were treated to another stunning sunset with clouds of all sizes and descriptions giving the sky a look of infinite depth. Near two in the morning, after a nap on the benches, we arrived at Altagracia where we found a hostel that, though run by nice people, appeared to be celebrating Drunken Gringo Nightmare Night. A half dozen Americans and Europeans with a half dozen bottles of Flor de Caña rum (can't fault the rum, it's delicious), every one of them exclaiming at full volume over how drunk they were. "I am sooo drunk!" "Are you drunk?" "I'm so ****ing drunk" "Muy borracha." "MY GOD, I'M DRUNK!"

My God, it was boring, and impossible to sleep through. Furthermore, as a self-respecting gringo who has discovered a fondness for Flor de Caña, it was embarrassing. I think every freshman in college should be forced to take a course entitled "Interesting things to talk about when you're drinking." What do you say, Dad? UCONN might be a good place to start.

The following morning, after getting a little sleep between gringo passout time and neighbors' squawking rooster, barking dog, and radio time, we headed by recycled U.S. school bus to the south side of the island. There we checked into the intensely tranquil El Porvenir surrounded by ancient petroglyphs. We were the only guests and we spent the afternoon reading (Me: The Path Between the Seas by David McCullough about the building of the Panama Canal, which I highly recommend) and enjoying the absence of loud drunks.

The next day we walked for a couple hours along the dirt road, greeted by smiling locals on bicycles and motorbikes, to a hostel where we camped. The hostel, Hacienda Mérida, I had mixed feelings about. It had all the hominess of a Starbucks. At nights it seemed to swarm with security guards, their powerful flashlights periodically filling our tent with harsh light. And it was very much separated from the friendly community around it. But it did have one huge selling point: for fifteen dollars you could use their kayaks as much as you wanted during your stay. We took full advantage.

For one full day we paddled into the river and swamp that bisects the isthmus between the volcanoes. We were joined by our Belgian friend, Hendrick, who we first met in Colombia. The river had an incredible assortment of birds and other wild life. Hilary even spotted a cayman. We sat still in our kayaks watching his wicked eye and snout until they slowly sank below the inky water. The sun was setting across the lake causing the volcano to glow by the time we returned to camp. That night we went to another hostel, El Caballito de Mar (the little horse of the sea), a much more genial place, for a fun party where we had our first taste of Flor de Caña.

The next day we climbed part way up Volcán Maderas to some tall waterfalls, then stayed in a simple, inexpensive little hospedaje run by the delightful family of Doña Dora. We ate steak while a still nursing calf snoozed on the grass beside us and talked for a couple hours with a Cuban man named Armando who was building small scale hydroelectric projects on the island. Armando had spent 8 years separated from his wife and kids before Castro's government finally allowed them to join him in Nicaragua. In the morning we walked around the rest of the south side of the island, through banana plantations and past frontier style houses that only started receiving electricity a year ago. Most of the people were friendly and talkative, if a little surprised to see us, so far from the touristy side of the island.

That night and for the next two we stayed in a comfortable room at the Finca Magdalena, a giant ramshackle building that must have been a kind of barn when the place was solely a coffee plantation. We spent one of the days climbing to the top of Volcán Maderas through the slippery jungle mud and watching the congos (howler monkeys) romp through the canopy.

Finally, after a few bus rides and a ferry to the mainland we ended up in San Jorge. There disaster struck. We were met at the dock by a sleepy eyed cabbie who drove us to the neighboring town of Rivas while trying to sell us on an expensive cab ride to Granada, lying to us repeatedly about the lack of buses and generally not taking no for an answer. When we finally got out, shaking our heads as he continued the hard sell, my camera must have slipped out of my pocket. I realized it was gone as he pulled away and chased him down the street yelling and flapping my Panama hat.

A man named Pedro said he knew the cabbie and put us in his car. We tracked him down, but the cabbie claimed not to have the camera, even after an offer of $100, much more than he could hope to get for it. At the time I wasn't so sure, but now I know he was lying, the way he lied about everything else. But why? I guess it was pride. I can picture him seeing the back of my head shaking as we walked toward the bus station after calling his bluff, hearing me screaming as he pulled away, and finding my little camera in the back seat. And I can almost understand the wounded joy he might have felt seeing me with despairing eyes practically begging him to help me. To just be able to reject it, money and all, with one more lie was probably too delicious for him to pass up.

My parents and Eddy, my teacher from Montevideo, generously offered to send me a new camera but shipping anything to Nicaragua is either a crapshoot or extremely expensive. I still have the camera that I broke back in Argentina and that was partially fixed by Fernando in El Chalten, so I will continue to take pictures until it gives out. But all the pictures going back to the Mono Feliz, save for the mini versions we uploaded to the blog, are gone.

Now, thinking of Armando separated from his family for so long, or the family we talked to who just got electricity, or the starving dogs and ragged children, it seems almost obscene to mourn a few hundred pictures. Still I do.