Late in 2009 we travelled to Nicaragua on behalf of goggleboxentertainment and Sony to film a taster for a possible travel format. What follows is a diary of that trip.

COUCH SURFING VOLCANOS

It’s clear that Sophie and Cara have no idea where Nicaragua is. Africa is their best bet followed by South America. The revelation that it is in Central America is a surprise to which both girls coo their approval. Nick on the other hand is genned up. He has suggested that we bring small gifts for the villagers. He will go far.

Actress Sophie, hairstylist Cara and recruitment consultant Nick along with the production team of Domenic and Marisa are my young companions on a weeks trip to Nicaragua. We are filming a taster for a TV format inspired by Couch Surfing. CS, as it is known, is a network of people all over the planet who offer a free floor or a couch or a bed to the intrepid traveller. In cash strapped times this is a very popular idea and the CS community now numbers over 1.5 million.

We arrive in the capital Managua; our target is to get to the island of Ometepe set in the middle of the vast fresh water pool that is Lake Nicaragua. It’s hot, the sun is brilliant and at our hotel two of the girls strip off to bikinis and dive in the pool. As our beach bevies bathe we go back to the airport and to pick up the hire car which wasn’t there when we arrived. We receive a 16 seater van which is all they’ve now got; its large and unwieldy. We are also given some advice. If we are headed for the island of Ometepe we must take the ferry crossing from Granada. Our planned route was to San Jorge near Rivas but the Alamo car hire men tell us this is very very difficult, many turns, a complicated route. “Ok” we say “Granada it is then” and off we go.

The road from Managua to Granada is straight, and I mean straight, “The Romans could have built it” is Domenic’s comment. He has taken charge of the driving and is to sit up front for three days through thick and, as we will discover, thin.

Granada is jaw dropping. The oldest inhabitation in the Americas it looks like a lost outpost of Cuba. There is a decayed colonial look to the buildings; they are on a human scale and in bright pastel colours. All bustle, faded glory, and tempting on the eye. I expect “Our Man in Havana” to appear at any minute.

We drive through the town, come to the edge of the lake and stop outside the ferry terminal. There is a small hole in the wall where we are told tickets are issued. Peering into the darkness we are shouted at loudly by the woman inside. Around us are street vendors selling fruit and nuts. We buy  cashews which are delicious. Then we get bad news. After further shouting and misinformation we are told that only passengers can board from here and that none of their ferries will take cars, leave alone 16 seater vans. The Alamo car hire men seem to have deliberately mislead us.

Deep breaths all round. We can’t go onto the island without the van so we must go the “difficult” route to San Jorge. Marisa guides us out of Granada with aplomb and soon we are on another straight road, belting along. Every so often we slow down for a school and then another, and then another, and it becomes obvious that Nicaragua is blessed with hundreds of them. Everywhere we drive we see school children and grand buildings set back from the road. There are sleeping policemen outside each one to curb our speed and even the huge American style lorries, that are a feature of this road, have to slow.

As we approach Rivas we can see the lake to our left. We arrive at a large roundabout and hazard a guess that San Jorge is also on the left. We risk it and before long are rewarded with a large arch welcoming us to the town. It is fashioned with a huge Coca Cola can on one side and a matching orange Fanta can on the other, it is topped with crenulations – a medieval castle with product placement. So then, the difficult route to San Jorge was a straight road until you turned left... The men from Alamo are now roundly cursed.

The ferry terminal is bustling and taking our van to the island is ‘no problem’. We are to cross on the biggest of the three ferries lined up at the dock and are guided on by the Captain resplendent in white uniform with a very official white hat. Domenic reverses down the very steep ramp; judging by his air of nervousness I am not sure he has done this before. I close my eyes as we inch on, the Captain is patient and all is safe.

The kids are excited and chirruping. “Oh My God” is a phrase used a lot. In the distance we can see the two huge volcanoes that are the Island of Ometepe, we cast off and seem to drift towards the island.

 As we sail sedately the volcanoes get larger and larger and I am struck that it all looks like the set for “King Kong”. Standing by Sophie and Cara I muse that it is rumoured a large gorilla lives on this side of the volcano who the villagers have been trying to catch for months. It has an appetite for kidnapping blondes. Sophie shrieks and Cara comforts her, for a giddy moment they appear to believe me.

 The ferry is a large raft with attitude, and our destination, Ometepe, is one of the most extraordinary places I have ever seen; it is just two volcanoes placed side by side, both of them active. The air is so clear that you can see every detail of them right up to the summits, which today have small rings of cloud at their tops. It is a view of magnificence, one of the most powerful and dreadful sights in nature. I fear though that we may be volcanoed out by the end of this trip – they are literally everywhere – twenty seven at least on this western side of Nicaragua.

After our unplanned detour to Granada we are getting late. I have no idea what lies in store for us on this island but  lunch seems to be what everyone wants and we end up in a deserted café which in the burning heat is barely cooled by old fans. Time drifts and the food is long coming. Cara suddenly gets up and stands in front of one of the fans. Her eyes fill with tears and she starts to sway. She is dehydrated and has caught the sun. I steady her before she falls and we quickly get food and liquid inside her.

Finally we are back on the road which, to my relief, is good. On and on we drive but the light is starting to fade. We are passing through the greenest countryside imaginable – “How many shades of green can there be?” queries Nick. We are supposed to get the three kids to their host who is waiting for them with their couches for the night, but the time is slipping away.   

We make progress past even more schools, and then we see the sign for our Hotel. We turn off and are confronted by a road that is little more than a boulder strewn alley. Domenic is tired and the driving is difficult. Progress is now very slow. We lose the light and realise our only goal must be to get to the hotel before dark. As we travel at little more than 3 miles an hour the last of the sun fades and we arrive at the Villa Paraiso in the dark. We hope they have an extra room for the three kids but they don’t  even seem to be expecting us.

After much confusion our booking is found and to our relief there is that additional room. The accommodation is simple but homely, and the mosquito nets come out to cover the large double beds. We are surrounded by darkness and tropical sounds and begin to decompress. The hotel is by the lake, set high above on the cliff, all we can see is darkness accompanied by the sound of waves.

Later, passing the dinner tables which are laid out on an open air terrace, I am hailed by Morgan an Irishman who owns a small hotel down the road. He is clearly starved of company. We proceed to talk for twenty minutes about football, cricket and rugby. Even the fact I support Man U doesn’t offend him as a Liverpool supporter and we part on good terms with a promise to visit his place later in the trip.

Dinner is great, fresh fish and fruit and everyone relaxes. Later we go down to the beach which is lit by a full moon. It is wide and sandy and I have to keep reminding myself that this is a lake and not the sea. But waves roll in. They have an urgency that is unfamiliar. Pounding in much closer together than I have ever seen, with a high pitched endless whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. The others leave for bed and I am becalmed, alone in this strange place, a volcano to my right, the lake in front. I become sad. My young companions are seeing all these sights for the first time but for me it is probably the last. There are only so many days left in my life and there is still so much unseen. I will never return here. I sit for a long time in thought, the restlessness of the waves permeating my soul. It is remote, poetic and ancient. This, I muse, would be a good place to meet ones end.

Early morning and the rain has come in but clears quickly – we set off down our unmade road to try to find Maria who was supposed to host the kids last night. En route we meet our contact Molly, an American, who takes us up the path to Maria’s home. It is approached by a jungle path that climbs through banana plants which eventually part to reveal a habitation. I use the word advisedly as Maria’s house is two make shift door-less wooden huts; her surroundings though are beautiful. The villagers have had a competition to see who would host the kids and Maria has won. She is worried that her home is too rustic, and is waiting nervously with her daughters for the kids to arrive.  After a warm greeting she takes them round the corner and into a shed that has three beautifully prepared beds. The walls are decorated with cardboard boxes and pillow cases with flowers in the design. The outside is visible through the large gaps at the top of the wooden slats of the walls. The kids love it but because this is so far away from our hotel, and we need to prepare their first task, we decide that staying here will be impossible. We film everything we need and leave Maria with gifts and good wishes, with I think both sides relieved.

In the afternoon we go to a school where they are rehearsing dance and musical routines for their annual Nicaraguan festival. In sweltering heat, on a parade square of concrete, the band rehearse. The energy is fantastic – drums, lyre glockenspiels, and a lone trumpeter. The bass drummer is brilliant, at one point hurling it above his head as he carries on hitting it. The trumpeter struts his stuff and two players, with what look like large cheese graters, scrape them in rhythm with a fixed concentration.

The dancers then tell the band that they want to rehearse to music so we all decamp to a field beside the school. The landscape is memorable for large deposits of horse manure and sheep droppings which give it a pungent odour. The children start to dance, one group in pairs, and the other with long carved wooden sticks; they are the Nicaraguan equivalent of Drum majorettes. Our kids join in and it is Cara not Sophie, the  trained dancer, who has the best rhythm. Nick is simply dreadful and makes everyone laugh.

The evening brings dinner again by the tempestuous lake. Ometepe is proving magical. It is so far off the beaten track that it is only back packers who make it here. It is impossibly lush, the people are friendly and accommodating and life has a slow pace. It’s as close to “cut off” as it is possible to be in our shrinking global village.

The third day is the cooking day and once again we set off down the impossible road to an eco-palace of a place called the “Hacienda Merida”. It is the creation of Alvaro who will be our host for the day. We are supposed to film in his kitchens, but he is determined to show off his place first.

We admire the table made from plastic water bottles and fashioned with an epoxy compound. There is a deal with the local school where Alvaro pays them for all the empty bottles they can collect and the school uses his money to buy supplies and uniforms. We see wood reclamation, and metal construction and are also shown the wheel chair access to the second floor. “This used to be a summer retreat for the President”. Looking out over the tree tops we can see why, the view is stunning over the lake, and we can see yet another volcano in the distance.

Finally we make it to the kitchen but then Alvaro takes the kids off to pick their ingredients. We traipse off into his kitchen garden and the kids are challenged to find aubergines. Sophie struggles with this as she doesn’t know what they are but has more success with cabbage and Nick makes a pigs ear of picking tangerines which are confusingly green.

Alvaro wants to be a TV host and keeps playing everything to camera. I haven’t the heart to tell him that he wont be in the final cut.

After the garden the kids make it to the kitchen and cook their own Tamales which are a sort of Nicaraguan wrap containing vegetables, beef, garlic, onions and jalapeno, it looks delicious. Nick is efficient but Cara is spot perfect. She is like a sponge that soaks up instructions and then reproduces them with perfect accuracy. Sophie on the other hand is never going to be a chef and sort of assembles the dish in a single pile. 

Later Alvaro hurls the kids and Domenic around on a rubber ring behind his speed boat watched by Marisa and me from the shore in the searing sunshine. We feast on the delicious food prepared earlier and then head off for a treat at the end of the day. We arrive at the “Eye of the Water”, a natural lake where we can swim. It is in a jungle glade, cool and green and beautiful. The water is the temperature of relaxation - not too cold nor warm. We step down three steep concrete steps and are adrift in Nicaragua’s version of paradise. Around the edge of the lake are a few other people including a tubby Nicaraguan young man who keeps scratching his scrotum and four Austrian boys who are transfixed by Cara’s striking breasts. They have the nerve to ask us if they are real. This is crass in the extreme, they are rude, like flies to honey – Domenic, Marisa and I are by now very protective of the girls as underneath all their ridiculous girly stuff they are sweet nice people.

Next day we make an early start for the ferry that will take us off the island and onto the road to Granada. Yet again the dirt road is appalling and it is with relief that we get back to the main road. At the ferry port Domenic vows that he will never drive the van again.

Back on the main land Marisa takes the wheel and we hurtle back to Granada to meet the kids’ second host. This is Sylvio. He greets us outside the ornate metal doors which open into his house. Its in Italianate style with a gorgeous central courtyard. Everywhere there are hanging tobacco leaves drying out in the late afternoon sun. Sylvio is charming. He is a tobacco grower and cigar maker, in a nice touch his top brand is named after his mother. He shows off the poster declaring that his cigars were first in the top ten of www.cigar.com  for over ten weeks. He is puffed up with pride.

In a corner of his courtyard there is a bench set up for cigar rolling and he challenges each of the kids to make a cigar. Sylvio and his young wife give a demonstration and then the kids try their hand.

Nick is determined to make the best cigar but doesn’t put enough tobacco in, Sophie makes what looks like an exploding napkin and Cara, again with great accuracy, produces the best result. She sits behind the cigar bench dressed in full bling of jewellery and sheer black backless dress. Her image of giddy uneducated hairdresser is totally belied by her determination and her skill. She has a photographic recall of everything she is asked to do. She is blatantly uneducated, yet another failure of the UK educational system. But hers is a thirst for knowledge and she is learning about  things that really excite her. There is a map on the wall of her bedroom at home with pins in all the places she wants to travel. Nicaragua is a good start, this trip is changing her life. As Sylvio judges their efforts all three sit in rocking chairs puffing away at large cigars. They all look like South American dictators.

When we leave Sylvio’s we are clutching bags of coffee and gifts of cigars. We head off to the centre of Granada and our hotel the Plaza Colon. It is eye poppingly luxurious and couldn’t be a greater contrast to our stay on the island. Our spacious rooms surround a courtyard at the centre of which is a large tiled plunge pool. This in turn is surrounded by four palm trees. It is an echo of a Moorish space in the Spanish Granada’s Alhambra. The sun loungers are made of teak and in the exotic peace I fantasise that Scherazade might be in room 12.

We walk out in the evening through the town square and down a road lined with restaurants.  All three girls are dressed in finery. As we pass, all the men look at them and cast flashes of jealousy at Domenic and me bringing up the rear. Dom is gay so they are way out there; it is flattering and amusing as all three are young enough to be my daughters. Dinner is at the kerbside while we are serenaded by three old musicians who are much better than they look, eventually we pay them to go away.

Next morning I am naked and about to get in the shower when there is a knock on the bedroom door. It is 6 a.m.. We all have been rising early but it is with some alarm that I open the door a crack. It is Domenic announcing that he wants to go filming and needs some film stock. I am not sure what he actually goes on to film, but what with one thing and another, including a lengthy session following the kids on the back of a truck, he contrives to be absent all morning. This delays our departure to Leon where we are to attempt what we hope will be the highlight of the trip – Volcano Surfing.

I have no idea how long the drive will take so I begin to fret. But I do get a chance to watch the world go by from the Hotel’s raised veranda. The square in front has horse carriages ready to charge a King’s ransom to any tourist who wants to risk a trip in their buggy. All around are street traders selling nick-knacks. Ocarinas in the shape of birds are a favourite but everything else is generic and could be bought anywhere. Coffee, tobacco and hammocks seem to be the top tourist buys. The hammocks are colourful and exotic but how you get them on board an airplane when their ends are wider than a suitcase, and their wooden bits resemble baseball bats, is a mystery.

Finally we get underway, back down the long straight road to the capital Managua. This capital city looks like any other. A mix of concrete and steel, modernity and decay. It does however have one unique characteristic – absolutely no road signs what so ever. The inhabitants attitude is “we know where we are going so so should you”. We get spectacularly lost for over an hour. Eventually we pay a cab driver to lead us out to the Leon road, which again is straight and immediately has a sign saying “Leon this way”.

Once again we are heading for a location and the light is starting to fade. Our third host is Enrique and we are supposed to meet him at his beach house on the Pacific near Salinas Grandes below Leon. We see the sign and are soon driving on another dirt road. It is a little better than the one on Ometepe but progress again slows to a crawl. As we reach the top of a rise the road gives out; all we can see are reservoirs and people walking along a path. After a phone call we are told we are going the wrong way and have to turn round to take a different dirt road. This one is dangerous and my patience is exhausted so I call a halt. We will go to Leon and we ask Enrique to meet us there, if there is any light left we will film. 

Leon is in the area that a lot of the fighting took place between the Contras and the Sandinistas in the Nicaraguan civil war. That war ended in the early 1990s but there are still bullet holes on the building facades. It is laid out on a grid, a lot of which is one way. At the heart is our hotel “La Perla”. It is a smaller version of the one in Granada and again luxurious.

We decamp to the town square as the light fades. The bells of the cathedral are clanging and summoning to Mass but there is no sign of Enrique. The evening is beautiful but dark. Finally he appears and in seconds flat we film what we need. Domenic describes this as the most exciting part of the trip. As he caused the panic by faffing around in Granada I am not amused and make a mental note never to allow him to schedule anything ever again.

In the evening we walk out in the dark heat and eat in a good local restaurant housed in what seems like an old factory. The food has been first rate and cheap and has never rebelled against our stomachs. The Nicaraguans like comfort, good cooking and a quiet life. They are reserved and charming and nothing, apart from the cursed staff at the Alamo car hire, has been too much trouble.

Next morning we are at the headquarters of a company who specialise in “Volcano Boarding”.  Basically you sit on a wide piece of wood that looks like a snow board with ridges on it that prevent you sliding off. Then you hurl yourself from the top of the volcano to the bottom; it’s like the luge in the Winter Olympics, at least in theory.

We are all bundled into the back of a pickup and are joined by some particularly irritating American girls. Forty five minutes later, after a dusty and vigorous drive, we come to a stop at the bottom of a tall and imposing black volcano. It is black because it is covered in lava and it is also active so the lava is quite recent. To get to the top is an hours climb in the beating heat with no possibility of shelter. Then you have to walk around the rim of the smoking crater to the point of departure, sit on your board and hurtle back down again.

Someone has to stay at the bottom and I volunteer. I ask later how the climb was and they say it was nearly impossible, that they felt they wouldn’t make it, it was so steep and so hot. As they ascend, I wait by the pick-up, which is parked in the shade. Finally I see them break the sky line. The pick up departs and I am left in the middle of a black, hot, pulsating landscape. After an age during which I experience abandonment, dehydration and general despair they wave at me from the top. It is impossible to gauge how far away or how high as all I can see is blackness and some steam. Finally they all begin to luge down. The irritating American girl falls off at high speed and cartwheels towards me. Cara gets half way and then comes to a halt – the lava is quite sticky and there isn’t much speed in anyone’s descent but knowing that spoils the romance of it. Nick sets off and falls off as he does at regular intervals all the way down. His dream of breaking the record and winning the challenge is dashed. Sophie the blonde actress skims down fast and straight and wins the challenge but all three end up covered in dirt from head to toe, and Nick has lava in his ears and mouth, along with a hang dog look.

The Volcano surfing has taken almost half the day but we still need to get to Enrique’s house on the beach and see the Pacific. This time he meets us on the dirt road and we follow him. We arrive again at the crest of the hill with the reservoirs in front of us, only this time we can see that the road bends round to the right almost out of our view. Within minutes we are drawing into the paradise that is Enrique’s pad. It is a group of pavilions surrounded by plants and trees. It is truly magical and all three of the kids are very disappointed that they didn’t stay here last night.

Cara seems to have fallen for Enrique; they have reached an early understanding and disappear, we presume at the very least to have a snog. After filming the final sequences we bathe in the ocean which is warm and spectacular – a long beach stretches in both directions and the sun is yet again beating down. We could stay all day but now must get to our hotel near the airport. I take over the driving. In Managua – the city with no road signs – we once again get lost. After an extra hour of driving and even asking the annoying street vendors where the airport is, we make it to the hotel. We drop off the van at Alamo and meet the guys who mislead us on day one. It is a strained moment.

Early next morning we fly out to Miami. We have an eight hour layover there and Domenic is determined we shall have lunch on Ocean Drive in his favourite restaurant the News Cafe. It is all such a contrast to where we have been. Everything seems synthetic and manicured as we drive along the smoother manicured roads. The restaurant is overpriced and the food ordinary. Even the walk to the beach , the Atlantic this time, seems dull and plain after the magnificence of the Nicaraguan Pacific.

With relief we board the flight home, the dust of Nicaragua still in our lungs and the heat of Central America warming our memories. The countries above and below, Honduras and Costa Rica are reportedly much on edge, but Nicaragua and its people seem genuinely at peace with themselves and their lives. But I hope it isn’t the last time I will travel there as I feel I barely scratched the surface of its mysteries.

© Chris Swann 2010