I have worked 9 out of the last 12 nights but that doesn't matter because as of now I am on vacation. Not really a vacation, at least compared to what most people consider, I guess it is more of a trip. I have packed up my hiking backpack one more time and in 7 hours I am headed to Nicaragua.
I was there for the first time last summer. My best friend is in the middle of a two year commitment to the peace corps there. Basically I can not freakin wait to get there. I feel like I need to let go and pack up and find myself ever 6 months or so.
It is a beautiful country. There is grace and excitment and a hint of danger wherever you go.
On my last trip I remember being at pure peace a few times, which is a rare but much cherished thing. You are able to just be.
I remember the first of these times I am laying in a fraying hammock, in the treeline, on the beach. The most secluded beach I have ever been on, my best friend lies in another one about 10 feet away. If you were to wake up there, where we are, you would think you were on a deserted island. The surf is crashing, the tide is out about 20 feet away now. The 4 or 5 other backpackers we are with, surfers from the UK, are out in the water and we cannot hear them. There was magic in this place. It is a secret beach.
The beach is crescent shaped. To the left is jungle, a grassy hill behind it. There are at least 3 ancient statues that I can see on the steep slope, a narrow rocky path advancing to something at the top. I imagine there is a historic, forgotten chapel or alter up there, but we do not climb it to find out. To our right the beach disappears into a rocky cliff, the ocean continues past it, but there is no way to see around the bend.
Our hammocks are just in front of a small, run down stone shack. It could be 10 years old or 100 years old, there is no glass in the windows, no door at the entrance, the roof is thatched with palms. Standing just behind us there are three men. All with guns, all with clubs. I do not speak their language well enough to talk to them, but Liz does and it's okay that we are here. We nap away the afternoon in the sun, we are hungry, we are thirsty, we are exhausted, and they stand guard over us. I don't know what they were protecting or preventing, and I don't care enough to ask. It is our secret. We are safe.
The second time that I felt this way was not even a week later. We had traveled to another part of the country, about half a days travel. There is a lake there, we had heard, that is an old volcano that has filled in with water. It is supposed to be bottomless. We pay a man to drive us from the nearby ancient city to the lake. We drive down a steep, winding, mountain path for a long time before we reach it.
There is a raft that we swim out to about 400 feet out. When we jump in, the water is the most tranquil water I have ever imagined. It is warm, but still a few degrees cooler than the humid air. The water is almost black, it must be bottomless. It would almost be scary but there is nothing scary about this place. It is late in the day, and when we get to the raft, just as my feet touch the wood, it starts to rain.
Sitting there, in the rain, on our raft, in that black, volcano lake feels like we are the only people in the world. We have nothing else to talk about and there is nothing to say.
An hour later when the rain stops the sun and the birds come out. We dive back into the lake and float on our backs while the birds sing in the evening.
And now I'm lucky enough to go back. for a couple weeks anyway. I won't have my phone, a computer, the internet, just us, our backpacks and whatever hostel we find to stay the night.
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