Captain America and The Ana Sofia.....Machete Fights in the Streets of San Juan del Sur.....A Seaman Gets Married.....Death on the Beach
Jamie, Taylor and I left for Nicaragua on Tuesday morning. The idea was utilize the Semana Santa vacation time to make a visa run. While renewing our passports, we planned on enjoying the beautiful Pacific Coast.
We hacked our way through the madness of downtown San Jose and located the Transportes Deldu S.A., the cheapest bus running north up the Trans American Highway from San Jose to Penas Blancas, directly to the Costa Rica – Nicaraguan border.
The dreadful journey costs 4650 Colones (approximately $9.00). The Ticos call their buses “Beer cans” because of the flimsy aluminum frames used to reinforce the walls. The bus had a 40 year old diesel engine that spewed exhaust. The drive train felt like it was one upshift away from dropping the transmission on to the road, and the suspension was beyond shot. Every seat was taken and some Ticos had no choice but to stand for the six hour roller-coaster ride through one of the most mountainous regions in the country.
We reached la frontera (the border) just as the sun was setting at about 6:30pm. After passing through customs relatively quickly, we were no longer in Costa Rica but not yet in Nicaragua. We had to walk 300 yards down a dusty and lawless road to the Nicaraguan border. The strange no-man's-land was riddled with “night people” and big rigs huffing and puffing dust and exhaust into the thick tropical air. I did my best best to fight back feelings of doom. The “Bienvenidos Nicaragua” sign offered me no solace as I approached the Nicaraguan border.
We got our passports stamped and paid the $20 at customs. Next we were able to find a young and trustworthy taxi driver to take us the remaining 30 minutes to San Juan del Sur for $25. The girls had bought some rum at the duty free shop and opened the bottle in the cab (which is legal). They asked him to turn up the radio. The theme song from The Titanic was playing on the radio. I looked out the window and through the palm trees at the stars glimmering above the Pacific Ocean. The vibrations were getting better.
We arrived in the city center, paid the cabby, and said goodbye. The first hostel we went to, Pacha Mama, was booked for the night, so we went down the street to a different hostel. I can't remember the name, but it was very tranquillo (chill). I talked to a photojournalist from Colorado and a hippie chick named Alex who claimed she wasn't from anywhere. The court yard of the hostel was full of travelers lounging on hammocks, smoking cheap cigarettes and expensive pot.
It was Tuesday night and the long weekend had not yet begun. I felt like one of those super-intense sports fans that parks their RV in the stadium parking lot the night before the big game. People knew that things were going to get weird in the days to come and they were ready.
The next morning we woke up and brought our backpacks to Pacha Mama. Taylor knew the owner and he hooked us up with a nice room. The three of us had to share a room with two Eastern European girls and an Israeli surfer. After settling in, I went down stairs to the patio on the front porch. There were a few early risers having their morning coffee and speaking softly with one another. I introduced myself to everyone. There were three Dutchmen named Nils, Norman and Willem, two Swedes named Anders and Tobias and an American named Alex.
The hostel offered a “shuttle” ride to a remote beach 30 minutes away for 5 Cordobas. Most of the people staying at the hostel decided to go, and so did Taylor, Jamie and I. Everyone was quite surprised to see that the shuttle was actually a 1987 Toyota pick-up with meal benches welded into the truck bed. It was standing room only for the fearless 20 crammed in the back. The local driver, Jose, latched the gate behind the last person and we were off.
The ride was a bumpy, hot and dusty one through Nicaragua's poorest countryside. I decided to open my bottle of tequila and pass it around. Everyone was feeling pretty good when we got to the beach. We all piled out and made a mad dash for the ocean.
The beach was picturesque with beautiful young people playing soccer, frisbee and football. Surfers were riding the tubular breaks with ease. I had to pinch myself...Had I just materialized into a scene from Endless Summer 2?
The shuttle dropped the drunken and sunburned cattle off in front of Pacha Mama and we all retired to our respective bunk beds for an afternoon nap. When everyone had eaten dinner and showered we reconvened on the patio. As plans were being made for where to go that night, I had been hatching a ground breaking idea. I suggested to the afore mentioned guys and whoever else was within ear shot, that tonight, we travel as a crew and assume the identity of The United Nations Sailing Team. After all, the hostel had basically turned into the Olympic Village.
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| Andres recruiting Aisha to become the first German and female member of the Ana Sophia |
The suggestion was widely accepted and because it was my brain child, I was nominated Captain of the vessel. The vessel later became known as The Ana Sophia. Ana because that was the name of one of the beautiful girls sitting on the patio and Sophia because my First Mate, Anders, had gone into some long story about the love of his life being home in Sweden. I was later referred to as Captain America, a title I proudly accepted and took very seriously.
The United Nations Sailing Team shoved off for the local bars. Walking through the narrow streets in the city center I immediately noticed how many Nicaraguans had flooded into the small town. It was as if the little surfing village had been supplanted by a refugee camp. Nicas were camping out on side walks, children and grandmothers were drinking cacique guaro together. I double checked my pockets every 10 yards.
Half a mile down the road I saw an unorganized crowd rapidly forming a circle around two small, dark men. The men had machetes drawn and were squared off. Apparently one man tried to steal the other's cell phone. I noticed that half the crew wanted to stay and watch the melee but I urged us to move on to the bars. I'll never know the outcome of the machete fight. But the next morning I'm sure I saw a street rat nibbling on a little brown thumb.
The next morning when the crew stumbled out of their quarters, we all went to have a big breakfast and plan the conquests of the day. We decided to return to the beach form the day before in hopes of getting “Twisted” again, for free.
We arrived and there was no Twisted tent set up but the locals assured us they would be there later. Everyone was nursing their hangovers. It took some time before that euphoric recognition of paradise to resurface. “What could ruin this feeling?” I asked myself.
It was soon after the Twisted Tent was set up that I began to notice the circle of people 100 yards down the beach. I asked someone sitting next me if he knew what was happening.
“Some dead girl washed up on shore,” he replied. Apparently, after about an hour of lying unnoticed, the gentle surf washing over her body, someone decided to investigate.
The details aren't clear, but the story I heard was that she was swimming drunk the night before and drowned. She was a Nicaraguan in her mid 20's. She was carried past the Twisted Tent on a surf board, wrapped in a beach towel. I saw her small brown toes as the Policia lifted her onto their pick-up truck. I mentally removed myself from that time and place and said some prayers.
The experience was sobering, to say the least. It forced me to reflect on life and death, a very paradoxical concept in such an idyllic place.
I was snapped back to reality when my First Mate, Anders, asked me if I would marry him and his new love. He introduced me to his bride-to-be, Daniela (a Twisted Girl), and explained that they had fallen in love over the past two days. Anders tried his best to clarify that, because I was the captain of the UN Sailing Vessel, I had the authority to officially marry the couple. She spoke no English and he, very little Spanish.
Needless to say, I was obligated to perform an impromptu beach matrimonial ceremony. I had the DJ at the bar play “Peaceful Easy Feeling,” and “Cinnamon Girl,” as the bi-linguistically challenged lovers kissed before a burning Pacific sunset.
After a long day and night of heavy drinking, I was happy to get back to the hostel and plan my exit strategy. Five days in a third world country, I was ready to head “home.” I went to bed early Friday night and made plans with Nils and Willem to share a cab back to the border at 8:00am Saturday. Jamie and Taylor wanted to stay one more night. I had heard enough horror stories of passing through the border on Sunday. Lines a mile long with Nicaraguans, Costa Ricans and Everyone else standing for hours in the burning sun and dusty air.
It took me, Nils and Willem two hours to get through to Costa Rica. Once through, I was persistent on getting my passport stamped for 90 days. The Dutchmen are doing an internship in a different part of Costa Rica and needed a different bus. We said farewell and I promised to accommodate them, and any other crew members of the Ana Sophia, whenever they were passing through San Jose.
I stood in line for two hours waiting for the Penas Blancas y San Jose. I was severely dehydrated and exhausted when I got on the bus. I sat down down next to a very heavy-set Tica woman with a trustworthy face.
My rationale was such: If I pass out to the right I'll have a soft landing. If I pass out to the left, I'll hit the isle and wake up. I clutched my North Face back pack between my knees and fell asleep.
When a Tico busker came through the bus selling waters and sodas, my seat-mate noticed I was struggling to convert my Cordobas to Colones and bought me a bottle of water. There were no words exchanged, but from the grateful look in my eyes, I'm sure my big Tica Mama understood how much it meant to me.
The bus pulled into San Jose and I took a cab for $3 the rest of the way home. I laid in my bed and reflected on the meaning of home. I realized then, that I wasn't on vacation. I actually live here in Costa Rica. Pero, todo esta bien. I was glad to have my Nicaraguan adventure story and I was looking forward to getting my TEFL certification nad to start working full-time.
