Me, without borders

This entry could also have been called "My day of hell crossing the Costa Rican border" but I felt like it might be a tad excessive. Like any good adventure, my day started at 4:00 am to catch the supposed 5:00 am bus to Mayogalpa. I ended up listening to a symphony of roosters while I waited 30 minutes for the bus to arrive. The bus ride was characteristically uneventful, the only changing thing was the smells. At first the smell was of the laundry detergent of the woman in frount of me. Then the smell of the little girl next to me’s shampoo which to me smelled like ginger. Finally the smells faded away into the smell of fumes as I left the bus.

I took the ferry from San Jose del Sur on the Island and as soon as I got there I went to secure a seat and start reading the book I’ve been slowly working through called From Beirut to Jerusalem, which is one of the most fascinating books I’ve read on the issues relating to Lebanon and Israel historically and up to the late 1980s. I wish I could have read more of it too, instead I put my head down and drool followed. Thanks 4:00 am wake up. More impressively, my tiredness seemed to entertain some of the locals also on the boat with me.

When I arrived in San Jorge, I tried to seek out of the clamouring crowd and find a collective taxi. I ended up talking to a guy telling me that he would be willing to take me to the border for C300, or $13. Which I probably should have turned down, considering the collective taxis are SO much cheaper. But I was like, this guy seems cool and told me that it was pretty easy to go through the border in a day.

On the way we chatted about wind turbines, cheese, traditional Nicaraguan food, why I don’t eat meat, and the border. I also talked to him about getting a guitar. At the border though, I got more than I had bargained for. For a small fortune I was able to get a “guide” to help maneuver me through his “friends”. The lesson learned was to try to muddle through on your own, or leave the damn country for three days.

However my instinct told me to try it this way first. At least for next time I will know where you have to try to sweet talk your way through.The border was also incredibly busy, especially when you found yourself behind two different tour buses. The first was a Gap Tour operator with 10 passports. The next guy was a Tica Bus person with 20 passports. By this time the Nicaraguans behind me were pressing in on me and were yelling at me for not jumping in. So while I had a guy breathing down my neck I was practically hugging the Tica Bus employee.

The other sad part of the Nicaraguan side of the border is the young and disabled men begging for money. Blind, disfigured, you name it. Frankly this is sadly one of the better places for them to play on the hearts of tourists. Even my “guides” at the border were saying that it is very difficult for them to get jobs in Nicaragua, which could have been a bit of a sob story to make up for the financial raping I was getting, but I am inclined to believe them about this. I don’t think many men would willingly do this type of work, getting caught, especially on the Costa Rica side could have some serious consequences.

I won’t go into too many details, mostly because I have no idea what exactly all went down when I crossed the border. But I will share my opinions.

1. Borders are a mix of the best and worst of humanity--the sinners and the saints. I would say that the sinners outweigh the saints, but at least they exist. I watched a older woman helping a group of four tourists with some issues they had. I was impressed with her. In my case I ended up getting into a shouting match with one of my guides. Not my shining moment, nor his.
2. Everyone has a price. Even me. I may have been suckered into a high price, but for the comfort of knowing I would be successful, I paid that price. Damn.
3. My curly locks and apparently just something about me, warrants Nico men to be very nice to me. The final passport guard in Nicaragua after my whole, crap day, told me I was beautiful. A fool, but beautiful.
4. In the end I realize that while slightly miffed at the loss of money, these seemingly unscrupulous men helped me understand how hard the times are. For example, my helper in Nicaragua said that you can go to school for years and years but it doesn’t really help you here get a job. I heard similar sentiments from the others.
5. To put the situation in perspective, my cab driver and I talked about gas prices. Gas here is about the equivalent in Canada, in a developing country. This means that a litre of gas is equivalent to about 2-3 hours work here.
6. At the end of the day, everyone is trying to make a living and I was the gullible one that day willing to pay a small fortune to cross the border. In the end, perhaps my driver can use my cash to help his two year old son. Or buy beers. Either way, it is no longer in my hands.

But all in all, I can say that I will never do this process again. The taxi was one thing, but frankly I am never going to have “help” again to cross the border. Next time I will rely on my own brain and my own wits. Or I will take a bloody vacation proper and go somewhere! The hassle is just not worth it.

After the whole ordeal, I felt a little defeated. I was equal parts mad at myself and mad at the craziness of the border. On the way back I felt like perhaps I was in shock. All I could really talk to my taxi driver was baseball. Apparently it is popular here. And I hate baseball. And know nothing about it. As you can imagine, the conversation was fairly small.

To continue my day of hell, I had to cross across the lake once again headed to Balgue. This meant that I needed to take a ferry ride across choppy waters. I was too anxious and mad to eat earlier, but an empty stomach wasn’t helpful this time. I felt slightly nauseous the entire way back. Once in Mayogapla I had a moment of thanks that I survived the day and at least made it somewhere safe and sound, Isla de Ometepe. I headed to get some more money (used all mine up paying crooks) and then headed to The Corner House there. I had met the owner through Martijn and figured it would be the perfect place to enjoy a little normalcy. Indeed it was a perfect place for such things.

I ate my hummus and vegetable sandwich with pan-fried potatoes while waiting for the last bus to Balgue to arrive. Had a very pleasant trip back reading my book along the way. I capped off the night at Cafe Compestre for some good food and hibiscus juice before making my way back to Totoco.

Thus the countdown begins for my next border crossing...90 days...