Crossing the Nicaragua-Costa Rica border during Holy Week is anything but holy. It's more like crossing the gates of Hell, only hotter and the wait to get in is longer. This is how God punishes me for mocking the religious Holy Week processionals in Granada.
To be fair, I brought this on myself. When I came from San Jose, Costa Rica with a Swiss travel companion we both agreed to book a nonstop TransNica bus in advance to Granada for convenience. On this return trip I was alone, and being a total sadomasochist, I decided to take the local buses, which together cost almost half of what one TransNica/Ticabus ticket costs. Pay $29 for a nonstop Ticabus or TransNica between Managua and San Jose. Or research a little and pay a lot less, but wait a lot more. It's a question of convenience.
Local buses do not go directly from Granada to the Costa Rica border. There is a bus to Rivas that leaves once every hour starting at 5:45am. The night before I made a reservation for a ticket at 9:45am...
Just kidding. There are no reservations.
I left Oasis Hostel around 9am and arrived at the dusty parking lot off La Imaculada Street 15 minutes later. I asked around and was directed to a random part of the dustbin where the Rivas bus would arrive "sometime around 9:30 or 9:45." Eventually the bus showed up and I got in the back to avoid bumping passengers with my backpack and guitar. Most of the local buses are psychedelically painted school buses, so you have the quicker option of (literally) jumping in the back. The bus was already standing room only. About 20 minutes after we left town a guy started shuffling down the packed aisle to collect the $2 fee.
It was hot and sweaty and smelled bad and all of those other things that Westerners complain about when they're in Central America even though they already knew they were traveling to the middle of a steamy rainforest. My only personal complaint is that at 6'2", I am not designed for this size of transportation. The seats are made for tiny Latinos, so even when I am politely offered a space, I turn it down since I don't enjoy having my knees in my teeth for several hours.
Standing up isn't any better. The metal roof clears my head by a grand total of one inch, and I hunch over to get a little breathing room. Despite this I still end up banging my head on the ceiling when we hit any large bump, much to the amusement of the short Nicaraguans.
One particularly funny guy asks me: "Does it hurt?"
"Not at all. I can smack you on the back of your head if you want to get an idea."
This is what I want to tell him, but I refrain; because I'm a culturally sensitive, worldly traveler. Plus I'm the only gringo on the bus.
Once we get to Rivas, I swoop out the back of the bus while ignoring all of the generous offers from pirate taxis to take me to the Costa Rica border for a "good price." The next trip is considerably shorter and less crowded. I breath a little easier. I buy some lunch from one of the many vendors who get on the bus during stops. Some guys are laughing at my bad Spanish pickup lines. The happy feeling goes away at the border; an infinite line stretches from the Nicaragua immigration building clear to the distant Costa Rica side.
Clearing customs and immigration takes an hour. Normally I could dash across the giant, empty parking lot with nothing more to think about than weaving around a few transport trucks. Today the line of humans resembles the entrance to the gates of Heaven, or more appropriately Hell. It moves slow enough to take forever, but fast enough so that you can't sit on your luggage and relax. The midday sun is merciless and there isn't a scrap of shade. In a rare moment of foresight, I remember I have an umbrella. I cower under it to prevent myself from turning into a bright, red gringo camarron during the 2 hour wait.
It's plenty of time to think. My Nicaraguan Cordobas were all spent. Good. I had a little less than $8 American in my pocket. It was sufficient to get a bus to Liberia where I could pick up a connecting bus to San Jose. Normally you pay a tourist 'tax' to enter Costa Rica, but it didn't concern me. Since I was employed by Berlitz language school, I had a medical card from La Caja (social security) which was proof that I was a working resident in Costa Rica, and not a tourist. So they had told me.
That was a mistake.
The Costa Rica immigration building was under construction that had started in 1999 and wasn't expected to finish until sometime the next millennium. It resembled a fenced-in chicken coop with a pack of wolves let loose inside. The long line was bottlenecking in the building entrance and police were directing clueless people every which way around the orange, plastic construction fences. Well, half of them were. The rest of the police were laughing and enjoying the various fights, screams and scandals whenever some illegal got caught and sent back. Babies wailed. Money exchangers shouted. A large group of European tourists were sent back to the end of the line after some security informed them that they had been waiting in the wrong line for a half-hour. I already missed the burning sun in the barren parking lot. At least it was quiet out there.
Eventually I made it to the checkin area to get my passport stamped for reentry. The lady who attended me was gruff and obviously didn't want to be there on her holiday. I pulled out my passport and social security card in anticipation.
"Passport, please."
I gave it to her with the social security card on top. She stamped the passport, stared at the social security card for a loooong moment and finally raised an eyebrow at me. I detected a slight scowl on her face.
"Nine dollars, please, to enter Costa Rica."
(In Spanish) "This is my medical social security card for La Caja. I live and work in Costa Rica for Berlitz."
"... It doesn't matter. You need all residence papers with this. Please pay $9 for the tourist entry tax."
"I don't have $9 with me."
"There's a cajero for Banco de Costa Rica outside. You can get money there and return to the line."
"What, seriously? *teeth grinding*"
We were yelling at each other. The line behind me surged forward with a will of its own and I heard shouts of "What's happening? Vamos ya!" I conceded to the grumpy border bitch and left to find the ATM outside...and wait in the line again.
The ATM was easy to find. It was right by the exit and looked practically brand new as it glistened in the bright blue, red and white colors of Banco de Costa Rica. Despite the crowds of gringo tourists, vacationing Costa Ricans and Nicaraguan immigrants running around willy-nilly everywhere, the ATM itself was rather lonely. There was no line in front of it.
That's because it didn't work.
The security/police/random guys with guns couldn't explain why. No one could. A thousand people running about and no one knew what was going on. My eye twitched. My teeth were grinding. God is punishing me for my Holy Week sins. At that point I began to rage like the Incredible Hulk, fulfilling the common stereotype that Latin Americans have about gringos who don't keep their cool when shit isn't working. Dammit, I could have taken a TransNica bus direct from Granada andavoidedallthisshit!!! I stomped my foot in the dust and breathed heavily.
OK, don't freak out and grow some cajones.
I returned to wait in the line, being sure not to return to the same border bitch I had talked to before. A half hour later I was in front of a guy who was more agreeable. I explained that the ATM wasn't working, and that I had almost almost almost enough money to pay the tax... He accepted the $8 and some-odd cents. I looked at my empty wallet, and thanked him. He pointed me to a place where the next bus to Liberia would arrive in about 20 minutes. I looked outside, but saw only a sea of thousands of lost people with a few islands of buses floating among them.
After asking more uniformed guys with guns where the next Liberia bus would arrive, I targeted a spot in the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd where a bus might or might not appear. Fifteen minutes later a bus slowly parted the undulating sea of people and stopped in front of me.
I didn't have any money, but I had a plan. And I had cajones. I waited in the line of people entering the bus until I got to the entrance. The driver, who looked like the black violin player from Dave Matthews Band, asked me for my ticket. I told him I didn't have a ticket and I had no money. I showed him my empty wallet to drive the point home, then I spoke in an even tone:
"Drive me to Liberia, When we get there take me to the nearest cajero, I will withdraw money, and pay for the ticket after that, I am an honest man, Can you do that, por favor?"
He was wearing sunglasses, but his eyes opened so wide I could see the whites spill out from behind the dark lenses. Once I saw those eyes, I locked my gaze with them. His dreadlocks swayed a little in a slight breeze. I noticed he bore a silver cross and it occurred to me he might need to do a Good Samaritan deed for the day.
"...Well...Ok... That's fine... To Liberia."
The words came out slowly. I thanked him. He shrugged, then directed me to the back of the bus, where I had to sit on the floor. The bus was standing room only (or sitting in the aisle,) and almost everyone was going all the way to Liberia. A Nicaraguan family was behind me in their seats. They had a little girl who stared at me shyly. I offered her some snacks and water I had in my backpack. She happily took them. Her parents smiled, and soon we were chatting as the bus inched through the crowds towards the road.
Two hours later the dreadlocked bus driver dropped me off in the parking lot of Maxi Bodega supermarket in Liberia. There was an ATM inside. We agreed to meet in 10 minutes in front of the supermarket after he went to the bus station to drop off other passengers. I soon found him outside, parked on the side of the road. I paid him for the ticket and he drove off with a "God Bless You."
A hour later I got a direct bus to San Jose. It was standing room only.
To be fair, I brought this on myself. When I came from San Jose, Costa Rica with a Swiss travel companion we both agreed to book a nonstop TransNica bus in advance to Granada for convenience. On this return trip I was alone, and being a total sadomasochist, I decided to take the local buses, which together cost almost half of what one TransNica/Ticabus ticket costs. Pay $29 for a nonstop Ticabus or TransNica between Managua and San Jose. Or research a little and pay a lot less, but wait a lot more. It's a question of convenience.
Local buses do not go directly from Granada to the Costa Rica border. There is a bus to Rivas that leaves once every hour starting at 5:45am. The night before I made a reservation for a ticket at 9:45am...
Just kidding. There are no reservations.
I left Oasis Hostel around 9am and arrived at the dusty parking lot off La Imaculada Street 15 minutes later. I asked around and was directed to a random part of the dustbin where the Rivas bus would arrive "sometime around 9:30 or 9:45." Eventually the bus showed up and I got in the back to avoid bumping passengers with my backpack and guitar. Most of the local buses are psychedelically painted school buses, so you have the quicker option of (literally) jumping in the back. The bus was already standing room only. About 20 minutes after we left town a guy started shuffling down the packed aisle to collect the $2 fee.
It was hot and sweaty and smelled bad and all of those other things that Westerners complain about when they're in Central America even though they already knew they were traveling to the middle of a steamy rainforest. My only personal complaint is that at 6'2", I am not designed for this size of transportation. The seats are made for tiny Latinos, so even when I am politely offered a space, I turn it down since I don't enjoy having my knees in my teeth for several hours.
Standing up isn't any better. The metal roof clears my head by a grand total of one inch, and I hunch over to get a little breathing room. Despite this I still end up banging my head on the ceiling when we hit any large bump, much to the amusement of the short Nicaraguans.
One particularly funny guy asks me: "Does it hurt?"
"Not at all. I can smack you on the back of your head if you want to get an idea."
This is what I want to tell him, but I refrain; because I'm a culturally sensitive, worldly traveler. Plus I'm the only gringo on the bus.
 |
| Tall Gringos Don't Fit In Small Latino Buses |
Clearing customs and immigration takes an hour. Normally I could dash across the giant, empty parking lot with nothing more to think about than weaving around a few transport trucks. Today the line of humans resembles the entrance to the gates of Heaven, or more appropriately Hell. It moves slow enough to take forever, but fast enough so that you can't sit on your luggage and relax. The midday sun is merciless and there isn't a scrap of shade. In a rare moment of foresight, I remember I have an umbrella. I cower under it to prevent myself from turning into a bright, red gringo camarron during the 2 hour wait.
It's plenty of time to think. My Nicaraguan Cordobas were all spent. Good. I had a little less than $8 American in my pocket. It was sufficient to get a bus to Liberia where I could pick up a connecting bus to San Jose. Normally you pay a tourist 'tax' to enter Costa Rica, but it didn't concern me. Since I was employed by Berlitz language school, I had a medical card from La Caja (social security) which was proof that I was a working resident in Costa Rica, and not a tourist. So they had told me.
That was a mistake.
The Costa Rica immigration building was under construction that had started in 1999 and wasn't expected to finish until sometime the next millennium. It resembled a fenced-in chicken coop with a pack of wolves let loose inside. The long line was bottlenecking in the building entrance and police were directing clueless people every which way around the orange, plastic construction fences. Well, half of them were. The rest of the police were laughing and enjoying the various fights, screams and scandals whenever some illegal got caught and sent back. Babies wailed. Money exchangers shouted. A large group of European tourists were sent back to the end of the line after some security informed them that they had been waiting in the wrong line for a half-hour. I already missed the burning sun in the barren parking lot. At least it was quiet out there.
Eventually I made it to the checkin area to get my passport stamped for reentry. The lady who attended me was gruff and obviously didn't want to be there on her holiday. I pulled out my passport and social security card in anticipation.
"Passport, please."
I gave it to her with the social security card on top. She stamped the passport, stared at the social security card for a loooong moment and finally raised an eyebrow at me. I detected a slight scowl on her face.
"Nine dollars, please, to enter Costa Rica."
(In Spanish) "This is my medical social security card for La Caja. I live and work in Costa Rica for Berlitz."
"... It doesn't matter. You need all residence papers with this. Please pay $9 for the tourist entry tax."
"I don't have $9 with me."
"There's a cajero for Banco de Costa Rica outside. You can get money there and return to the line."
"What, seriously? *teeth grinding*"
We were yelling at each other. The line behind me surged forward with a will of its own and I heard shouts of "What's happening? Vamos ya!" I conceded to the grumpy border bitch and left to find the ATM outside...and wait in the line again.
The ATM was easy to find. It was right by the exit and looked practically brand new as it glistened in the bright blue, red and white colors of Banco de Costa Rica. Despite the crowds of gringo tourists, vacationing Costa Ricans and Nicaraguan immigrants running around willy-nilly everywhere, the ATM itself was rather lonely. There was no line in front of it.
That's because it didn't work.
 |
| Transnica: The easy way to cross the border |
OK, don't freak out and grow some cajones.
I returned to wait in the line, being sure not to return to the same border bitch I had talked to before. A half hour later I was in front of a guy who was more agreeable. I explained that the ATM wasn't working, and that I had almost almost almost enough money to pay the tax... He accepted the $8 and some-odd cents. I looked at my empty wallet, and thanked him. He pointed me to a place where the next bus to Liberia would arrive in about 20 minutes. I looked outside, but saw only a sea of thousands of lost people with a few islands of buses floating among them.
After asking more uniformed guys with guns where the next Liberia bus would arrive, I targeted a spot in the shoulder-to-shoulder crowd where a bus might or might not appear. Fifteen minutes later a bus slowly parted the undulating sea of people and stopped in front of me.
I didn't have any money, but I had a plan. And I had cajones. I waited in the line of people entering the bus until I got to the entrance. The driver, who looked like the black violin player from Dave Matthews Band, asked me for my ticket. I told him I didn't have a ticket and I had no money. I showed him my empty wallet to drive the point home, then I spoke in an even tone:
"Drive me to Liberia, When we get there take me to the nearest cajero, I will withdraw money, and pay for the ticket after that, I am an honest man, Can you do that, por favor?"
He was wearing sunglasses, but his eyes opened so wide I could see the whites spill out from behind the dark lenses. Once I saw those eyes, I locked my gaze with them. His dreadlocks swayed a little in a slight breeze. I noticed he bore a silver cross and it occurred to me he might need to do a Good Samaritan deed for the day.
"...Well...Ok... That's fine... To Liberia."
The words came out slowly. I thanked him. He shrugged, then directed me to the back of the bus, where I had to sit on the floor. The bus was standing room only (or sitting in the aisle,) and almost everyone was going all the way to Liberia. A Nicaraguan family was behind me in their seats. They had a little girl who stared at me shyly. I offered her some snacks and water I had in my backpack. She happily took them. Her parents smiled, and soon we were chatting as the bus inched through the crowds towards the road.
Two hours later the dreadlocked bus driver dropped me off in the parking lot of Maxi Bodega supermarket in Liberia. There was an ATM inside. We agreed to meet in 10 minutes in front of the supermarket after he went to the bus station to drop off other passengers. I soon found him outside, parked on the side of the road. I paid him for the ticket and he drove off with a "God Bless You."
A hour later I got a direct bus to San Jose. It was standing room only.
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