Off the Beaten Track: The Mouth of Hell

Masaya, Nicaragua

Photography by Caroline Bergeron

"In the case of expulsions of rocks, protect yourself under the car." This was the first sentence to catch my eye on the pamphlet the guard gave us upon entering the Parque Nacional Volcan Masaya. If this weren’t ominous enough, then the sign at the top of the volcano was. "Park your car facing exit, in case of emergency."


Of course, my first question was, if such an emergency were to arise, which action should I perform first? 

Nicaragua has nine active volcanoes running up the centre of the country like a volatile spine. The Volcan Masaya is the most accessible and, by extension, the most popular. It is also a rare form of basalt volcano, which attracts scientists from around the world in addition to the steady flow of tourists. It erupted for the first time in 4550 BC, and to date, it is one of the largest eruptions on historical record.

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On the day we arrived in a rattling, aging mini-bus, the volcano was smoking profusely – emitting noxious sulfuric fumes that stung our eyes and nose. Despite the haze, however, we were suitably stunned as we approached the gaping yawn of the Santiago crater. The drop to the crater floor is vertiginous. The stark grey windswept landscape gave us the impression a mischievous god shoveled out the centre of mountain with an ice cream scoop. My stomach convulsed. My feet hurt. The wind whipping in, out, and over the toothless maw didn’t help. I felt as though at any minute I could be plucked from the safety of my perch and tossed insignificantly into the mountain’s belly. It was awesome.

When the Spanish arrived on scene in 1524, the vent was a bubbling lake of molten lava. The crater remained that way until 1979, when the lava retreated. The cross that stands watch over the site to this day, was first erected by those same conquistadors, who gave the mountain its nickname, boca de infierno – the mouth of hell. The cross was meant to stop the devil from surfacing. Its effectiveness, however, is still in question, given the great eruption of 1772. In fact, the stairway to the cross is currently inaccessible due to a minor eruption six years ago. Workmen were toiling away at it in the incandescent sun on the day of our visit.

The indigenous tribes who predated the Spanish were more efficient. They simply tossed appeasing sacrifices over the edge every once in a while. 

We were hoping to catch a glimpse of the famed chocoyos del crater – the florescent green parrots that make their nests in the crags and caves of the cliffsides, mystifying scientists – but, alas, we were not so lucky. The volcano, which is one of the world’s largest natural producers of dioxides, also expels bioxides which when combined with saliva form sulfuric acid. Other than the arcane chocoyos no other life exists for miles around the vent. Needless to say, visitors are encouraged to limit their stays.

Trails, maintained by park staff, circle the bleak and rocky moonscape, offering the intrepid traveller the opportunity to explore the fields of volcanic ash and stone, which look the forlorn and twisted sculptures of a modern art museum. As we discovered, however, these trails can come to abrupt ends as they near the crater’s edge and become unstable. Simple wooden signs appear without warning, forcing the hiker to retire, or to continue at his own risk.

The Sandero de los Coyotes, if you can get past the name, is the longest and most interesting of the trails, taking several hours to complete. But even if you have only a short while, the volcano is worth a detour. You will never see anything else like it on earth.

Originally published on Hackwriters: The International Writers' Magazine

The Beautiful Game

This morning (EST), Arsenal plays Norwich City in the Barclay’s Premier League. Gunners vs Canaries. So, of course, I’ll be watching.  I am a fan in the true sense of the word.  That is to say, a fanatic. I read Nick Hornby’s Fever Pitch a year after I saw Arsenal play live at the Emirates in London, England for the first time. I understand his fever.  And I understand his pain. We cheer for the same team.  Both of us through accident of fate.

                As a Canadian, with no geographical, historical, or familial affiliation to London’s North End, my fanaticism began when I attempted to purchase tickets which coincided with a rare trip across the pond. Of the six London-area teams that float in and out of the Premier League, Arsenal happened to be the only franchise playing conveniently within my travel plans. I booked the tickets. Admittedly, I was hoping to see Chelsea.  I was an aficionado of Didier Drogba, who played for the team then. My current fandom would rather forget this misguided loyalty – unless, of course, he one day represents The Arsenal.

                I have played soccer since the age of eight.  It has always been my sport of choice. In my soccer career, I have plied every position on the field – including keeper.  In Grade Eleven, I was Most Valuable Player on my high school team. Upon graduation, I played competitively for several teams in the OCSL – as both an attacking midfielder and a striker. And over the last two decades of my slow decline, I have played mens’ recreational league, until my knees cried, “No more!” I have also coached girls’ and boys’ soccer for twenty years at the high school and summer competitive levels.

                I love soccer. I love “football.” I love Arsenal.

                Author John Doyle is another kindred spirit. His The World is a Ball captures the insanity and the socio-political impact of a sport which is embraced my more than half of humanity. It also hints at the dark underbelly of soccer economics – as do Franklin Foer’s How Soccer Explains the World, and Simon Kuper’s Soccernomics. But no author is/was as prescient as Canada’s Declan Hill in The Fix – a book which more or less foretold the eventual moral collapse of FIFA in glaring research and detail.

                So how does one remain a fanatic in a world where soccer has become as phony as the WWE? Wilful ignorance. A fanatic defies logic by definition, anyway.

                Pele called it “the beautiful game.” And I most definitely watch soccer for its beauty. Whether it be the balletic performance of Mesut Ozil, or the dynamism of Alexis Sanchez, or even the charismatic grit of Francis Coquelin (yes, all Arsenal players), I salivate over well-executed footwork, the prophetic run, the previously unseen pass.

                But as zealous as I can be about the uppermost echelons of soccer, the beauty of the sport is visible in the most far-flung backwaters of the global village, too. In games of pickup where economics can’t touch it.

                In fact, the night I watched Tomas Vermaelen score in extra time to seal Arsenal’s 2-1 victory over Newcastle United – the night my Arsenal fanaticism took hold – is only the second greatest game I have ever witnessed.  The first took place more than a decade ago on an asphalt court in the barrio of Jose D. Estrada in Nanadaime, Nicaragua.  In was 38 degrees Celsius and sunny at mid day. Most of the players were barefoot or in flip-flops. The ball was a caricature – peeled and lopsided and underinflated. I was on a team composed mainly of Canadian high school students and little children from the barrio.  Our opponents were the quick and flashy teenagers from that same community.  We did not share a language, a culture, or a nationality.  Our life experiences were a seemingly insurmountable gulf.  But at one moment during that game, I stopped to wipe my brow and survey the scene unfurling around me -- the smiles and the impertinent scoffing, the heckling and the cheers.  The high fives and back-slapping. We were communicating the only way we knew how.  To this day, It remains one of the happiest moments of my life. Soccer: the universal language, the shared religion.  The beautiful game.

 

               Now, if only Arsenal can whip Norwich and retake the top of the table. Kick off in five.