Sunrise Mojo

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Isla de Ometepe, Nicaragua 27 Years Old

She had a month free from school and I had a wide open future, so we met at the airport in Managua to spend a month backpacking around Nicaragua.

After a few hours packed in the back of busses jammed full of people we made it at last to this island double volcano.

The water is warm and comes in small lapping waves. I wade in and let my body sink and all weight vanish.

I resurface and look back at the beach and the handful of small huts of Santo Domingo, perched at the edge of a lush, humming jungle.

A tropical bird of prey rips apart a white fish with his parrot-colored face in dark sand.

The jungle island’s massive volcano rises behind it all, straight into the sky, glowing golden halo around its oblong crater. Sun falls just behind it’s peak.

…37 minutes until the motorcycle is due.

I swim in and dress fast and scurry up the beach to the road. The royal blue dirtbike’s 200cc engine ignites with hunger.

She leaves 300 Cordoba on the table, trots down the steps of the open-air thatch-roof hut, and hops on the back.

The rear wheel kicks out in the soft sand, and we’re off.

Brash engine breathes cackling growl as I open the throttle and smash through the gears. Long S-turns along a stream beneath the jungle canopy.

For the first kilometer I watch for cops - though there may not be a radar gun in all of Nicaragua. Regardless, the speedometer on this bike is broken and shows zero at any speed, so I tear the throttle open and it roars in delight.

The police have fortunately left vacant their makeshift checkpoint, where earlier we’d been stopped to show our documentos.

We fork left for a 30-kilometer semi-circumvention of the mile-high active volcano. Dipping back and forth across the single yellow line to slingshot past pickup trucks piled full of smiling Nicaraguans.

We come to a town and the locals look on in wonder at the gringo in red swim trunks, red shades, green bandana, and the gringa in a salmon sundress that ripples in the wind, drawing whistles from drunks and dalliers perched by the road.

We pass an entire family piled happily on a single bicycle, the mother sitting on the frame’s horizontal bar, a child cruising in her lap, the father pedaling with legs spread wide in the seat.

Beyond the town, we sail through a blind curve in the dense jungle tree-lined road to dip through a cool valley, when suddenly a herd of bulls stands like a blockade scattered on the road.

I kick the shifter down two gears and let the engine pull the wheels, then ease on the brakes as we approach.

A full-grown white bull stands facing us in the center of the road, his gaze and horns aimed directly at our approach.

The only clear line through the pack opens inches beside him, so I rip open the throttle for a quick burst of speed and then clasp the clutch.

We inch closer and drift by in perfect silence. Time slows as his curious eyes meet our curious eyes, a vibrant moment of life sensing life, and roll on through to the other side.

16 minutes left.

The road opens to a long straightaway facing due west into the sunset, scattered palms burst high above the jungle canopy as far as the eye can see, explosive silhouettes against the pink-orange pastel sky.

We roar along in high gear.

…7 minutes to go.

I veer across the oncoming lane and thump-thump off the road’s ledge and onto the dirt of a one-pump gas station.

The clear-eyed old attendant seems to understand our mission, and has the pump in hand the moment I whip off the cap. The small tank takes less than 2 liters, she hands him 20 cordobas, and the bike is growling again before he replaces the pump.

She hugs my stomach, I clutch and throttle and we blast forward to hop the four-inch ledge back onto the island’s only road, screaming down the single-yellow-line toward the town.

…4 minutes left.

As we slow to near the town, deep soft brown eyes absorb the sight, bewildered.

School kids stop playing ball to stare, a truckload of Nicaraguan families stare bewildered at the loco gringos racing along in fast forward against time.

Ahead, the final set of speed bumps comes into view at the edge of Moyagulpa.

…3 minutes now.

I lay off the throttle and drop a gear to sneak the tires through the tire-wide gap at the right edge of the speed bump. Then full-throttle, then glide by another, then full throttle again.

As we cruise the first few blocks of town we realize we don’t know how to get back to our hostel. Rookie mistake.

We coast the main drag looking at signs, hoping one will seem familiar. None are.

…2 minutes remain.

We reach the far end of town, turn around, and ask an evening-walk, smiling-eyed old man… “Donde esta el Indio viejo?"

“No sé, no sé,” but he kindly reels in a younger man across the street. …One minute left.

“Dos cuadras a la derecha.”  

We muchas-gracias both men and crank the throttle all in one motion, slip between a truck and a donkey cart, and lean right together to glide through the last turn, then gun it for the final 60 meters, pulling up to the front curb of our hostel in a cloud of hot dust.

5:59:47.

I click off the ignition, kick down the stand, and we step through the arch into the main room.

Juana is there at the desk. I hand her the key with 7 seconds to spare.

With a smile on her face, without even glancing at a clock, she sits with calm bright eyes and asks about our day.

We stroll up the street around the corner and buy two one-liter cervezas and a gallon of water for the night. Late dusk indigo sky short-circuits with wild lightning and we stand in silent awe.

After several minutes we realize we’re waiting for some big finale, but the whole storm is the finale and will go on like this for hours.

We walk back to the Indio Viejo and lay in long rope hammocks beneath a thatch-roof canopy and drink our cervezas in the dark. Rain patters all around the cozy shelter.

Soft footsteps near between crackles of thunder. A young traveler named Moby joins us and tells how he’d met a crazy lady in Costa Rica who convinced him to care for her pet monkey on an island for a few days until she came back.

After a week, she didn’t come back, so he convinced someone to ferry him back to the mainland, and set the monkey free.

Soon Moby fell asleep, and the rain kept falling, and the thunder boomed, and a frog hopped across the thatch-roof dirt floor, slow, like this glowing moment is everything and there’s no such thing as time.

A new happy memory to warm my heart forever.