Africa Hot

Andy, the Welsh guy I have been hangin’ with, and I rolled out of the hostel shortly after 8 this morning. Too cheap to pay the 28 bucks for a tour of a local volcano we set out on the motorcycle to see if we could find the base of Cerro Negro, the youngest volcano in Central America. After a dozen u turns and asking equally as many locals we finally found the dirt road that would lead us to our climb; supposedly only about an hour in duration from the parking area. The road became increasingly sandy and after about twenty minutes the driving conditions severely exceeded my off road prowess. When the front wheel finally dug in and the bike fell in super slow motion to the ground, it was pretty apparent that our strategy for approaching the volcano needed to be modified.

I parked the bike on the side of the road, stepped off, took the key, and started walking. Despite the fact that only a few minutes prior we passed a sign that read “Cerro Negro 13.3 km” neither of us even mentioned the second, less desirable option of turning back. After nearly an hour and a half of walking we finally scored a ride in a pickup. Unfortunately the guy happened to be turning at the next intersection and dropped us less than five minutes down the road. After another 1.5 miles we finally arrived at the entrance station equipped with a small fridge holding a couple of cold soft drinks and an extremely bored attendant who talked at us for 20 or more minutes even though, based on our lack of response, it had to be obvious that we didn’t have the slightest clue what he was blabbing about.

After dissipating some heat in the shade we stepped back out into the Africa hot landscape and headed for the black cinder cone of Cerro Negro. Although the place is a popular tour destination, we had the place to ourselves; thank God, because we needed some respite from our overly narrative ranger. Within the core hot steamy sulfur gases escaped from beneath their blanket of volcanic rocks. White, yellow, and orange deposits painted the black landscape otherwise devoid of color.

45 minutes later we were running down the hot (from the sun, not lava) cone. We briefly met a French couple on their way in, got verbally bombarded by our new friend, and set to walking back to the bike on a ridiculously hot road. After a couple hours of sweltering walking, one wrong turn, and car surfing the French couples’ SUV we were back at the bike.

All this for only five bucks at the entrance. Most people who take the tour only get an hour walk to the summit, not a 25 kilometer, routefinding adventure through hellishly hot black sand roads. As I sip from my fourth bottle of water I wonder what those folks are paying for J…