El Rama

El Rama is the name of the "port city" that has both a river-way that leads to Bluefields, and a roadway that leads to Managua.  When traveling between Bluefields and Managua with the Bus/Panga combination, one stops in El Rama to grab a bite to eat and switch modes of transportation.

Now, the use of the words "port city" to describe the place is nothing short of ridiculously generous.  The "port" is a wooden pier that juts out into the river a bit.  It can house about three or 4 pangas at a time if the boats are smushed right up against each other.  Immediately past the "port" is a hill lined with stairs (probably 30 or so) that leads to the main road and bus depot.  Really, it feels more like a random town corner with a quasi-exciting existing in all four locations.  The bus depot is a roof and a bunch of benches under it.  There's a counter at one side that sometimes has someone sitting there.  Tickets are bought from random vendors on the street that wave things around in your face until you either push them out of your way, or you buy something.  Buses leave from the street corner once every two hours or so - all of them headed for the great city of Managua.

Kitty-corner to the bus depot is a "hotel" with a few rooms, and ooh la la, a BATHROOM! Since they have a monopoly on the bathroom industry for this particularly busy corner or travelers, they charge 2 cordobas in exchange for a pre-cut slice of toilet paper to accompany you on your adventure of the special room (never mind the poor souls with liquid poo... it's not like 4/5 the population is suffering from this condition at any given moment or anything).

On a third side of this corner lives a little woman and her daughter.  They have taken advantage of the unreal amount of traffic that miraculously finds themselves stuck on this corner for several ungodly and rainy hours by opening up a little restaurant.  They sell Gallo Pinto (rice and beans), corn tortillas, ensalada verde (which is really shredded cabbage with tomatoes and lime juice) with whatever form of chicken they feel like serving that day.  Granted, their only competition is a bunch of women walking around selling tortillas with goo and cream in them, and so they kind of have a captive market, but there's something to be said about real home-cooked Nica food that just warms the stomach. That the walls of the restaurant are painted a combination of bright pink and sunshine orange, and a cage-full of squawking parakeets adds percussion to the latino rock music blaring out of overtaxed loudspeakers only adds true Nica-style ambience to the place.

Maya and I arrived in El Rama after a particularly interesting Panga ride and collapsed into our chairs on the bus that wasn't due to leave for another 4 hours.  After peeling off our oversized rain suits covered in rain, brushing out the massive bird's nests that had manifested themselves in our hair, and indulging in a few chocolate chips that had the effect of brighting up the cloudy day, we ventured into the little restaurant for a hearty dinner of the best grilled chicken we'd ever had.  45 minutes later we were stuffed, and clueless as to what to do with ourselves for another 3 hours.

And then Maya stumbled upon a new gem.  A pool hall.  The fourth corner of this little intersection has a three-table pool hall with some more of that overly loud music playing, and a bunch of dudes standing around or shooting pool.  We asked about the price.  Only 3 cords a game?  Nice.  Although we'd been to a pool hall or two in Bluefields with some of the boys from the workshop, this was the first time the two of us ventured into a hall without any male accompaniment.  Since the requirements women have as part of their daily routine, the sight of two women - obviously not related and old enough to have at least a few children already - out and about disfrutando (having fun) is definitely a foreign one.  I have never felt so stared-at as we played our little games of pool, American-style.  (The rules here are way different from those in the States).  Although they didn't bother us, it was obvious all the clientele at the hall were quite intrigued by our presence.  Every shot was scrutinized and every movement we made duly noted.  Only one dude had the balls to give us some pointers as he passed by on his way to another table.  I felt a little like I was back at Gualpatara standing on the cliff in my bathing suit watching the locals snap camera-phone photos of me to show to their friends later.

Anyway, three hours passed quickly.  Both of us were decently pleased with our skills on the table, and returned back to the bus in time to eat a bit more trail mix before finally pulling out of the "town".