Nicaragua & El Salvador

January 2026

  1. Granada
  2. San Juan del Sur
  3. Managua
  4. San Salvador
  5. Copán

Day 1: The nacatamal whisperer

We touched down in Nicaragua this afternoon, and within hours we’d already stumbled into a culinary adventure we couldn’t have planned if we’d tried. Our driver Isaías became an unwitting accomplice to our foodie schemes when Bea deployed her secret weapon: small talk in Spanish, loaded with innocent questions about local food.

Isaías initially played it safe, recommending the usual tourist-approved spots — the kind with English menus and predictable TripAdvisor reviews. Very sensible. Very boring. But as Bea kept probing about real food, the kind his abuelita would approve of, something shifted. Isaías realized we weren’t your typical gringos looking for the nearest Starbucks. We wanted the good stuff. The local stuff. And just like that, we had ourselves a culinary accomplice.

“For dinner today, I will take you to the place where I buy nacatamales for my family every Saturday,” he declared, with the gravity of a man sharing state secrets. Nacatamales, for the uninitiated, are Nicaragua’s glorious answer to tamales: pillowy corn flour dough lovingly stuffed with pork, vegetables, and cheese, all bundled up in a banana leaf and steamed to perfection. “The family of a friend of mine makes 300 of them every Saturday morning, and sells them from their house until they run out. They often run out by the end of the day, so we’ll see if we get lucky.”

We pulled up to what looked like an ordinary house. Isaías ushered us into the yard like a man leading pilgrims to a shrine. The aroma hit us first — a warm, intoxicating perfume of steamed banana leaves and slow-cooked pork. In the backyard sat a traditional charcoal stove of magnificent proportions, crowned by two colossal pots brimming with nacatamales. We may have gasped. The daughter of the family greeted us with a shy smile, clearly unused to wide-eyed tourists gawking at her family’s weekend side hustle. But after some friendly chatter, she warmed up and even posed for a photo.

Back at our boutique hotel, Isaías personally briefed the staff on proper nacatamal protocol — because this man takes his nacatamales seriously. Traditionally served with small buns and coffee, ours came bun-accompanied but coffee-free, given the late hour. And they were spectacular: the dough rich and complex (clearly simmered in homemade stock), the fillings generous and deeply savory, the whole package impossibly moist. We demolished them with zero regrets.

If day one is any indication, this trip is going to be delicious.

Isaías, our driver in Nicaragua.

Cooking a batch of nacatamales over a charcoal stove.

A yummy nacatamal.

Day 2: Volcano diving

Today we did something that sounds like it belongs in a rejected Bond script: freediving in a volcano. Before you picture us plunging heroically into molten lava, let us clarify — we dove in a volcanically heated lake nestled inside a crater. Still pretty badass, just with significantly less incineration.

This experience was actually the entire reason we planned this trip to Nicaragua. A while back, we discovered a freediving school perched on the jungle-draped shores of Laguna de Apoyo, and it’s been on our bucket list ever since. The school is run by Thomas, a world-class freediver with an almost evangelical passion for teaching, supported by a crew of equally talented instructors. After chatting with Thomas about our goals (and, let’s be honest, our limitations), we suited up and slipped into the warm volcanic waters with our instructor, Matt. Under his guidance, we each made real progress and conquered a few personal demons.

Suitably exhausted and feeling very accomplished, we met up with Isaías for the afternoon’s agenda: the village of San Juan de Oriente, known for its pottery. Apparently, half the households here produce and sell ceramics — and sure enough, we couldn’t walk ten meters without stumbling into another workshop full of gorgeous handmade pieces.

The highlight? Eric’s turn at the pottery wheel. We’re fairly certain the artisans offer this experience to tourists specifically so we can appreciate just how impossibly difficult it is to make a vase that doesn’t look like a lopsided mistake. (Eric’s definitely looked like a lopsided mistake.) After the wheel portion — where skilled hands actually shape something beautiful — the artisans paint each piece with all-natural local glazes, then etch intricate geometric patterns using, of all things, bicycle wheel spokes, before firing the pots in a kiln. The results are stunning.

We’re trying to travel light, but we have already failed. Several small pottery pieces are now coming home with us.

Feeling good after freediving with Matt in geothermally heated Laguna de Apoyo.

Traditional pottery of San Juan de Oriente.

How not to make a vase.

Day 3: Choppy waters and plaza life

Back to the volcano for round two. Today’s instructor was Taylor, and we kicked off the session with freediving-specific yoga designed to expand our lung capacity — very zen, very calming, the kind of thing you’d expect at a wellness retreat. The lake, however, had other plans. Overnight, the wind had picked up considerably, and our serene volcanic crater had transformed into a choppy, wave-tossed obstacle course. Mother Nature apparently wanted to keep us humble. Challenge accepted. Under Taylor’s guidance, we adapted to the conditions and pushed through. After just two days of coaching, we made more progress than we thought possible and we both crushed our personal bests in two different freediving disciplines. Not a bad start to the trip.

We’ve been exploring Granada a little in the evenings since we arrived, and today we finally had time to do it properly. Verdict: this city is ridiculously charming. Picture Spanish colonial architecture in a rainbow of pastel colors, one-story houses lining cobblestone streets, a grand cathedral presiding over a lively central plaza — the kind of place that makes you quietly Google real estate prices on your phone. But what really got us wasn’t the architecture. It was the people.

Within hours, we’d somehow collected an entire cast of characters. There was Jicarita, a radiant young woman dressed in traditional Nicaraguan costume, posing for photos as a tribute to her country before moving to Mexico. There was the group of viejitos who commandeer the same plaza benches every day to play checkers with the intensity of chess grandmasters. And then there were the kids — a pack of them attacking a piñata with the kind of ferocity usually reserved for Black Friday shoppers, while a crowd of adults (us included) cheered them on and watched the candy explosion with vicarious glee.

Each encounter felt effortless and genuine. We weren’t tourists gawking from behind a camera; we were just… there, part of the rhythm of the town. It’s a rare feeling, and Granada dishes it out generously.

We came to Nicaragua for the freediving. We’re staying for everything else.

Granada’s cathedral.

Day 4: Nature’s bathroom habits, explained

We bade farewell to our extremely charming colonial Airbnb in Granada and pointed ourselves south toward the Pacific coast. But first: a jungle detour at Parque de Aventura las Nubes.

Our guide Ariel led us through the park — first by ATV (loud, dusty, extremely fun), then on foot through lush tropical forest. The wildlife highlight? Sloths. We spotted several of them draped over branches, looking deeply committed to doing absolutely nothing. Which, as it turns out, is kind of their whole strategy. Ariel explained that sloths only descend from their trees once every seven to ten days — exclusively to poop. They bury it to mask their scent from predators like ocelot cats and boa constrictors. So basically, sloths have figured out a lifestyle where they nap 95% of the time and risk their lives only for bathroom breaks. Respect.

The howler monkeys, on the other hand, have no such discretion. We were admiring their theatrical bellowing when we saw a light drizzle ahead of us. “Oh, is it starting to rain?” we asked innocently. Ariel’s knowing smirk told us everything we needed to know. It was not rain. It was monkey pee. We moved on quickly.

The forest also delivered some excellent tree trivia. There’s a species with dark reddish bark that peels dramatically — the Spanish colonizers called it the “Naked Indian.” Locals have since renamed it the “Gringo Tree,” because when tourists hit the beaches here, their skin turns red and peels in exactly the same way. We appreciated the rebrand.

Just before sunset, we rolled into our new Airbnb in Playa El Remanzo, just south of San Juan del Sur. It’s every bit as lovely as the Granada place — just swap the colonial appeal for a beach vibe. Time to relax.

Our guide, Ariel.

Day 5: The art of doing very little

We woke up, slid open the doors, and just… stayed in bed for a while, staring at Playa El Remanzo like it owed us nothing and gave us everything. Fresh ocean air, the soft rhythm of waves, zero agenda. This is the kind of morning that makes you wonder what you’re doing with your life back home.

Eventually, we summoned the motivation to move — but only because the beach was right there. The tide was low, so we went for a barefoot run along the water’s edge, packed sand underfoot, occasional splashes through the shallows to cool off. By the end, we’d achieved that rare state of being simultaneously energized and completely at peace. (Is there a word for that? There should be.) The day was warming up and we were thoroughly sweaty, so naturally we did the only sensible thing: ran straight into the ocean, running clothes and all, and tumbled around in the waves like overgrown children.

The rest of the day was gloriously uneventful. We lounged at the Airbnb. We took long walks on the beach. We ate spectacular seafood as the sun went down. We did not check email.

We could absolutely get used to this.

Our view from bed.

Day 6: Staring into the mouth of hell (briefly)

We drove from San Juan del Sur back to Granada and checked into yet another charming colonial boutique hotel. At this point, we’re convinced Nicaragua has some kind of secret hospitality pact — every place we’ve stayed has been gorgeous.

But we didn’t come back to Granada just for the architecture. We came for Masaya — a highly active volcano with a persistent lava lake bubbling away in its Santiago crater. There are only a handful of places on Earth where you can casually peer into a crater and see actual molten rock glowing back at you. (The only other one we’ve visited is Kīlauea in Hawaii.) This is not normal tourist fare. This is staring into the literal bowels of the planet.

We arrived mid-afternoon and spent some time hiking around the area. The landscape felt appropriately apocalyptic: fumaroles hissing steam hot enough to hard-boil an egg, the faint smell of sulfur in the air, and a panorama of even more volcanoes dotting the horizon. (Nicaragua: where the volcanoes have volcanoes.) We timed our visit to arrive at the crater rim just after sunset, when the sky was dark enough to see the lava’s ominous orange glow.

Locals call Masaya ”la boca del infierno” (“the mouth of hell”) and honestly, they’re not being dramatic. The smoke, the glow, the sulfurous stench — it all tracks. The volcano emits enough sulfur dioxide that the area has been evacuated before, so visitors are limited to ten minutes of viewing time. Just long enough to feel awestruck, snap some photos, and get out before your lungs file a complaint.

A glimpse into the Masaya volcano crater.

Day 7: Octopus shops and island hopping

Bea spent the morning improving her Spanish with Gloria, a local teacher. Central American Spanish, it turns out, is its own delightful beast — just different enough from the Spanish spoken in Mexico (which Bea is familiar with) to cause slight confusion for the past several days.

Take for example the word pulpería, which appears on storefronts everywhere. Bea had been quietly wondering why so many shops specialize in octopus (pulpo) — are Nicaraguans obsessed with these eight-armed mollusks? Turns out, it just means convenience store. Mystery solved, dignity intact.

The accent also took some adjusting to — locals tend to drop certain sounds entirely, which left Bea filling in blanks like a linguistic detective. And then there’s the grammar: Nicaraguans use vos as an informal “you,” which changes verb conjugations in ways that will trip you up if you’re not ready. Gloria walked Bea through all of it, but the lesson quickly became more than language — it turned into a deep dive on Nicaraguan history, politics, culture, and food. Time extremely well spent.

In the afternoon, we traded textbooks for kayaks and paddled out to las isletas, the cluster of tiny islands dotting Lake Nicaragua just off Granada’s shore. Our guide Byron led us through the maze of lush, jungle-draped islets, gliding past vacation homes, fishing boats, and lots of wildlife. We had our Merlin bird identification app working overtime — the birding here is fantastic — and ticked off several species we’d never seen before. We also saw howler monkeys doing their usual dramatic bellowing and a white-faced capuchin monkey glaring at us from the shoreline like we’d just tried to park on his lawn.

The sun was setting as we returned to shore, knowing this was another perfect low-key day.

Day 8: The pupusa that started it all

Today we flew to San Salvador, capital of El Salvador, and immediately felt the gear shift. Nicaragua was all hammocks and slow smiles; San Salvador is a metropolis — traffic, energy, honking, hustle. Different vibe entirely.

But we didn’t come here for the traffic. We came for the pupusas.

Here’s the backstory: years ago, we wandered into a tiny restaurant in West Seattle called Lily’s Salvadorean, and our lives were never the same. Their pupusas were transcendent. Imagine handmade corn flatbreads, stuffed with a variety of fillings — beans and cheese or squash blossoms or slow-cooked pork — and then pan-fried until golden and slightly crispy. We became regulars. Over time, we got to know Lily’s daughter, who often served us and told us stories about her home country with the kind of warmth that made us want to book a flight on the spot. If her family could make food this good in Seattle, we figured, imagine what El Salvador itself must be like.

Lily’s Salvadorean has since closed (a genuine tragedy), and while you can find pupusas elsewhere in Seattle, they’re just not the same. So we did the only logical thing: we went to the source. The pupusa pilgrimage has officially begun.

Day 9: Flowers, murals, and the pupusa schedule

Today we drove the Ruta de las Flores, a winding scenic route through El Salvador’s western highlands that absolutely lives up to its name. We stopped in three villages — Nahuizalco, Juayúa, and Concepción de Ataco — each with its own charm. We strategically timed our visit for a Sunday to catch the plazas at their liveliest, with people heading to church, shopping in open-air markets, and enjoying the parks.

The highlights came fast: street food sizzling on every corner, vibrant murals splashed across walls, and local crafts we didn’t need but bought anyway. We also visited a coffee farm, where we learned that coffee fruit — the bright red berry surrounding the bean — is juicy, sweet, and tastes absolutely nothing like coffee. Who knew?

Meanwhile, our pupusa education continued. Apparently, they’re traditionally eaten for breakfast and dinner, but almost never for lunch. (No one could explain why. It’s just the rule.) So we obeyed: pupusas for breakfast, street food for lunch, and pupusas for dinner. We also discovered that the dough can be made from either corn or rice — and the rice version? A revelation. Lighter, slightly chewy, and gone before we knew what happened.

Day 10: Sacred layers and chaotic bird gods

Today we crossed into Honduras for a day trip to Copán, one of the most important Mayan archaeological sites in the region. We’ve visited ruins in the Yucatán before and always leave fascinated — there’s something about standing where an ancient civilization built, worshipped, and occasionally sacrificed people that really puts your own problems in perspective.

Our guide Jorge was a masterful storyteller, and he did not hold back on the grim details. Kings who wore masks made of human skin. Ball games that doubled as elaborate executions. Gods who shape-shifted fluidly between human, animal, and supernatural forms, depending on the occasion. Light stuff.

We also learned that Mayan pyramids are layered like architectural Russian dolls. When a king died at Copán, he was entombed inside a pyramid. His successor would then build a new, larger pyramid directly on top — not to erase the old king, but to preserve his sacred energy and absorb it into the new structure. A surprisingly practical approach to divine inheritance. The happy side effect? The inner layers remain remarkably well preserved, giving archaeologists a gold mine of information buried beneath each visible temple.

Just outside Copán, we visited a macaw rescue and conservation center, where confiscated, injured, or illegally kept birds are rehabilitated and eventually released back into the wild. Earlier in the day, we’d seen macaws carved into ancient stone — revered as gods, central to Mayan cosmology. Meeting the actual birds was… a contrast. Loud, chaotic, opinionated, and completely uninterested in being divine. We loved them anyway.

Day 11: Brutalist beauty, the big mouth, and the proper way to eat pupusas

Back in El Salvador. We kicked off the day with a walking tour of San Salvador — central park, the sleek state-of-the-art national library, the grand national palace, and a handful of churches. But the real showstopper? The Rosary Church. It’s aggressively brutalist — all raw concrete and bold geometry — but the stained glass windows transform the interior into something almost otherworldly. Light pours in from every angle, painting the space in a shifting spectrum of colors.

After the city tour, we headed up the San Salvador volcano, locally known as El Boquerón (“the big mouth”), which sits a mere 20 to 30 minutes drive from downtown San Salvador. Yes, the capital was built right next to an active and powerful volcano. Before you question the wisdom of this, consider that the tiny country of El Salvador has 241.4 volcanoes — one of the highest concentrations in the world. (Why the .4? One volcano straddles the border, making it 60% Guatemalan, 40% Salvadoran. Volcanoes do not respect international boundaries.) Point being: anywhere they’d built the capital would’ve been next to a volcano.

For lunch, we committed a cultural transgression: we ate pupusas. Yes, we know they’re traditionally not a lunch food. We’ve decided we don’t care. Rules are for people who haven’t tasted pupusas.

And these were the best we’ve had yet. The restaurant owner invited us into the kitchen to watch them being made, and we filmed the whole thing so we can attempt to replicate it at home. (Emphasis on attempt.) Even better, our guide Gerson taught us the proper way to eat a pupusa.

Here’s the protocol: First, take a generous dollop of curtido (tangy pickled cabbage and other veggies) and place it on the side of your plate. Top it with a drizzle of tomato salsa. Then — and this is key — open the pupusa slightly to expose the filling and let it cool. Once it’s ready, tear off a piece with your hands, scoop up some curtido and salsa, and eat it like a tiny taco.

It turns out that we’ve been doing it wrong for years. Thankfully, they’re delicious no matter how you eat them.

A mural honoring the native Salvadorans who were massacred during the Martínez dictatorship of the 1930s.

San Salvador’s Rosary Church.

National Library of El Salvador.

National Palace.

Day 12: Ancient engineers 1, modern engineers 0

On our last full day in El Salvador, we visited two Mayan archaeological sites: San Andrés and Tazumal. Both were fascinating, but Tazumal was the showpiece — larger, more imposing, and full of engineering lessons we probably should have learned by now.

Here’s the thing: the original Mayan structures at Tazumal were built with carefully placed stones on the exterior, rubble fill (small stones, gravel, earth) on the inside, and an outer layer of lime mortar and plaster. Elegant, practical, and — crucially — earthquake-resistant. Then, in the 20th century, well-meaning restorers “fixed” large sections using concrete. Fast forward to the devastating 2001 earthquake: the concrete portions cracked, shifted, and collapsed. The thousand-year-old original stonework? Still standing. Ancient architecture outperformed modern restoration. The Mayans knew what they were doing.

We ended the day with a drive up Cerro Verde volcano for a view of the nearby Izalco volcano, still active and sporting the most geometrically perfect cone we’ve seen yet. Izalco was once nicknamed the “Lighthouse of the Pacific” because its eruptions lit up the night sky so reliably that sailors used it to navigate. It’s been quieter lately, but still very much alive.

A fitting end to our time in El Salvador — volcanoes, ruins, and a healthy respect for people who figured things out long before us.

  • Mayan ruins and volcano tour: EC Tours

Mayan and Toltec ruins at Tazumal.

Gerson, our guide in El Salvador.

View of Izalco volcano from Cerro Verde park.