The next day I played some baseball with some Nica kids in the street, after which they pointed out a local gym for me to use. Feeling like a pile, I went to lift some weights at the gym. The place looked like a boxing gym from an old Van Damn movie. There was graffiti everywhere, with strange paintings of Arnold Schwartzenager on the wall and mostly broken equipment. Despite my gangly form, the jacked and tan Nica lifters gave me respect for some reason. Apparently , no gringos ever go to that gym due to its intimidating aesthetic. 2Pac blared ‘Gimme Da Loot’ over the speakers as Nicaraguan veins popped from their biceps.
The coolest part about Nicaragua is that there aren’t many tourists, so the locals really like us gringos more than many countries. Most Nicas are at the same economic level, so there is little begging and few homeless that I have seen in my 10 days here. We met the friendliest crazy man on the street and he sang us Frank Sinatra, followed by ‘I love USA and Jesus Christ!’ at the top of his lungs. Never asked for a dime. The locals say he just loves hanging with Americans and making new amigos. Amen.
I found a quiet hostel called ‘Mama Sara Hostel’ for the last night in San Juan Del Sur. It was run by Mama Sara herself, who gave me lemonade and a cookie upon entry. Sweetest lady ever. Her and her family hung out with us much of the night. More of a homestay than a hostel. I roomed up with Johnny C and Michelle, a 26 year old married couple from Minneapolis who ran their own photography business. Johnny looked like Johnny Depp from ‘Fear and Loathing’ while his wife looked like the girl from the Truman show who tells Truman the show is a lie and breaks the hearts of millions of fans. They had been around the world twice.
I also shacked up with this squat funny man named Zach Lumberjack who had been bitten by a monkey a few days earlier. His finger was oozing puss and purple stuff. The hostel he stayed at had a pet monkey, who apparently bit people all the time, but never turned any victims retarded. Zach had a red beard and added smarmy commentary to group convos. He played in a touring ska band when he was 16 that toured China for 2 months. We talked music and theories about why Japan has a strange obsession for America.
Heading out of San Juan, I said adios to my Dutch sisters and departed for Northern Nicaland on my own. I rode the public buses, jam packed with chickens, puppies and more humans than you would ever believe could fit in a school bus. It cost $4 to travel across the country. I arrived in the old colonial town of Leon where I ran into Allen Athens from Georgia. I had hung out with Allen earlier in the trip. It’s cool how you keep seeing the same amigos in different parts of the country.
Allen and his bearded pals flew down to Panama, where they bought a car and were slowly driving it back to America. They were continuously stopped by the border cops, whom they had to bribe. They would ask to see the required ‘flares and road cones’ you were apparently supposed to have in your trunk. All BS.
Allen Athens and I walked around the town, taking pictures and drinking soda like wee lads. We went thrifting and found some old Larry Bird jerseys and a torn t-shirt that said ‘Brett! At the Disco’. I wanted to buy it so bad, but it smelled of wet dog and butt. I then got a $4 massage from a blind-massage parlor. The blind guy was incredible and deserves to be commended. We talked about the street hot dog vendors and food safety, after which Allen and I ate some semi-sketch street food from this lady called ‘Mama Grande’. I have a picture with her.
We went back to the hostel. This is where I met Colin Farrell...
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