God Punishes Me At The Costa Rica-Nicaragua Border Crossing

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.

Tall Gringos Don't Fit In Small Latino Buses

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.

Transnica: The easy way to cross the border

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.



  


 

"Cantas En Espanol?" Calle La Calzada In Granada, Nicaragua

Granada has some beautiful churches.

Despite my very antagonistic views on religion, I still enjoy looking at churches, temples, mosques and other places of worship when I travel. It's amazing what peoples' incredible blind faith will cause them to construct in honor of their invisible deity.  If I sound like a heathen, just remember that thousands of people still visit the Great Pyramids of Egypt and the Greek Parthenon everyday.  Does anyone believe in Anubis or Zeus anymore??

Iglesia de Xalteva and San Franciso are two of the largest churches in the city.  They certainly command the most attention when you walk by them. Xalteva is more well-maintained, and like much of the city has been recently renovated to appease the growing number of tourists to Nicaragua.  People are finally realizing that Central America isn't just about Costa Rica.  Strangely enough, long before Costa Rica became the textbook definition for ecotourism, it had nothing to offer to its original Spanish conquistadors; they left it practically untouched to focus on Nicaragua.  The result is that Costa Rica is quite devoid of any historical, colonial-style buildings, while places like Granada are filled with architectural gems.  Most of the old buildings have high spires and are painted in bright, eye-catching colors that shine in the midday sun.

A walk through the city is pleasant, just remember to bring sunblock.

All of this wandering in the unbearably hot sun lead me to cool off in the nearest body of water, the massive Lake Nicaragua.  There is a beach that looks out to Ometepe Island where Ometepe Volcano dominates the view.  I hear there are nice, beautiful, unspoiled parts surrounding the lake, but there is nothing nice I can say about this particular beach.  It's dirty, smells bad and the locals stared at me in a rather unnerving way.  Apparently gringos never make it this far from the city center. When I said the lake is 'nearest,' I should clarify that it's a good half-hour walk from the Calle La Calzada, which is the furthest that your average tourist in Granada ever strays from the center.

I don't blame them.  After one day of fulfilling my tourist quotient, I regrouped with some people from the Oasis Hostel then resigned the rest of my long weekend to lazy, people-watching on The Walking Street, or Calle La Calzada.  Why bother going anywhere else?

In another notable difference from Costa Rica, Granada's tourist strip is lined with restaurants and bars where the tables and chairs are placed directly on the streets like in many European centers.  I haven't yet encountered this kind of cafe culture in Costa Rica despite their fame for quality coffee.  Even in San Jose's wide Avenida Central, all the businesses keep their tables within the four walls of their property.  Considering that Nicaragua typically reports higher crime rates and higher rainfall than Costa Rica, it seems even stranger to see such a vibrant street scene that lasts long after sunset.

I didn't think much about these things in Granada.  It was great to be sitting with a beer in the middle of the street of Calle La Calzada's urban activity instead of observing it from a balcony.  The musicians, begging children and street vendors that constantly bothered me only added to the excitement.    

Naturally I was drinking more than anyone else at the table.  I was the only one at the table who wasn't backpacking through Latin America.  My Swiss Couchsurfer travelmate was there with some Finnish girls, several Germans girls and one loud, extravagant Australian metalworker.  Tey were nursing one or two beers so they could continue budgeting their next month through Nicaragua, Honduras, El Salvador, etc.  Meanwhile I was throwing back many Flor De Canas and Coke's on my meager teacher's paycheck that I had just received the past Friday.  "Wealthy" is all relative.  My teacher's checks are small, but still better than some backpackers with their "five-dollar-a-day-budget."  Then again I always budget a lot for alcohol.

The Australian had budgeted for other fun things.  He was approached by a Nicaraguan "friend" at the table and excused himself.  Ten minutes later he returned with a smile and opened his hand, "Look what my 'friend' found."  A small plastic bag of off-white powder sat in his palm.

No one was surprised.  The Australian had the best travel stories (like most Australians,) and many of them involved various drugs binges at Thailand Full Moon Parties, cocaine in Honduras, etc.  My only concern was whether or not he had been ripped off.

"Are you sure it's real??"

"Yeah, haha...he probably cut it with baking soda and charged me a 'gringo' price.  It's OK for tonight.  I've paid more before."

A little off Calle La Calzada

He stashed the bag in his pocket then started on another long story about 'accidentally' landing in San Pedro Sula, one of the most dangerous places on Earth, where he was threatened by machete-wielding locals at every corner.  We continued bullshitting until the bar closed around 11pm.  The Germans and Swiss Miss --true to form-- quickly excused themselves back to the hostel since they had early morning obligations.  The rest of us wandered to a late night "Irish" bar (Kelly's??) hosting karaoke a few blocks off La Calzada.

The Australian and I did shots while one of the Finnish girls sang...a Finnish reggae song.  Although we didn't understand a damn word, everyone applauded her beautiful voice.  Eventually I worked up the courage to try my first karaoke song in Spanish.  It was "La Ciudad De La Furia" by Soda Stereo, and I'm glad I sang it since I spent the rest of the night with a cute Nicaraguan chica who couldn't believe a gringo was able to sing in Spanish.  Gracias, Gustavo.