Day 2 ended up being one of the longest days I can remember. The goal was to make it from San Jose to Los Chiles via bus, take a boat to San Carlos in Nicaragua, find a way to get to the tiny town of San Miguelito, and then somehow meet up with my dad in town and take the little motorboat out into the lake, up the river, and into the ranch. Sounded simple, sure...
5:00 AM on the longest day ever:The morning found us packing up leaving the "Tranquilo Backpacker Hostel" before sunrise, missing the make-your-own pancake breakfast, and catching a cab to one of the approximately 10,000 bus stations in San Jose. This one, located in a seemingly uninhabited broken-down ghosty part of town, was simply an over-sized carport with an adjacent kiosk. Tickets were cheap -- only about $6, and the bus itself was fantastic. It was a huge, honkin Mercedes-Benz tour bus will tall reclining chairs and lower-level storage. The people were calm & quiet (maybe it was just early), and the bus was air conditioned -- A pretty novel idea. Having a lot more money than most Latin American governments, I think the bus systems in CR must be well-subsidized. Because they're certainly not expensive.
At 6 AM we were off, and knew we had a few hours in front of us. Within minutes of leaving the city, we could see why travel guides used the word 'nestled' to describe San Jose. Just off the plateau, the tiny windy roads going North were surrounded on both sides by steep mountains and giant green drop-offs into endless tropical vegetation. The mountains really were spectacular. I think this is the first time i'd seen mountains that were neither desert, nor rocky, nor ever-green, nor snow-covered. Just tropical. From far away they just looked like giant mounds of soft moss.
We passed little farms on the way up -- Surpsisingly, cows lived and seemed to thrive on the impossibly steep hillsides. Chris pointed out that they must have some really strong cow-legs...
As beautiful as it was, the winding and bumping certainly causes a small degree of motion sickness. Natalie had already popped her Dramamine, so she was good and sleepy. I felt a little discomfort, but it wasn't severe, and as soon as we were out of the winding mountain roads, i was dandy. I think it was the 5 AM wake-up time and Dramamine, but Chris and Nat both fell asleep straight up, open-mouthed on the bus and I had to take a photo.
Our arrival at about 11:00 am into Los Chiles was a welcomed one, and we were relieved that after 4 hours, our bags hadn't been looted, soiled, or stolen during the continuous on-loading and off-loading.
San Jose was nice -- It's full of history and business and culture. But it's basically an overgrown, dirty city with its share of crime problems. As important as it is, it really wasn't my reason for going on this trip. With my first step off that bus in Los Chiles, i breathed in the hot humid air of the rainforest, and felt like it was the beginning of the arcadian journey I was looking for.
11:00 AM on the longest day ever:Right at the bus stop, there was a little outdoor comedor (eatery). We sat down, and lucky for us, the school next door hadn't let out for lunch yet. We ordered some Tico food, munched it quickly, and shooed away a hungry puppy before asking how to get to the town dock. The owner/manager/bartender of the comedor told us to walk 200 meters west, and then 600 north. Thanking him, we bought some water, strapped on our bags, and took our 800 meter stroll through town.
Los Chiles, or "Town", like many places in Central American, is simply a collection of little houses and business huddled around the center of town. In Los Chiles, like many places in Costa Rica, the center of town is the soccer field. There weren't a lot of people out, and no one playing soccer, but then again it was about noon at the beginning of the rainy season. It's a little ironic that you have to fight tenaciously to keep anything cropped and free of vegetation in the tropics, but the soccer field was muddy, torn up, and bare with big brown patches near the goal box.
Somewhere between the town soccer field and the dock, we came across a tiny house with an older gentleman in a rocking chair, shirtless, hat tipped low, possibly asleep. Above him, hand painted on the house, read "Abogado Municipal". We really got a smile wondering how many places on earth the town lawyer got to spend the day shirtless in a rocking chair.
1:00 PM on the longest day everWe arrived at the dock, bought our tickets, and waited for the 1:30 PM motor-boat that represents only the 2nd port of entry between Nicaragua and Costa Rica. There are almost 10 million people in Nicaragua and Costa Rica, and only one land border crossing. That would prove an interesting part of the story for me later on... As for this boat ride, for being the secondary way of entry into Nicaragua, it was actually pretty small. The boat was probably 30ft long with two little out-board motors. Down at the dock, some cheesy eco-tour boat pulled up that was the same size, but with larger engines, shiny tube-steel canopy cover, and a spiffy paint job. It looked about 20 years newer than the one we were on. But hey, tourism seems to be where the money in is Costa Rica. For our purposes, other than being overloaded, our boat was great.
The company on the boat ranged from some teenage sweethearts to old women with sacks, to migrant workers, to a well-dressed business man from El Salvador. He definitely seemed out of place in a muddy jungle-river. Us two and a half gringos definitely stuck out both in town and on this little boat. When Chris sat down on an improvised third row in the middle of the boat, it was unlevel, and rocked hard, causing most of the boat to look over and laugh. Not that there was any gringo-tension, but almost tipping over the seat certainly broke the ice, and the businessman and us had a nice conversation up the river. At about 1:45 PM We pulled out, and putted up the Rio Frio. We saw a few monkeys in trees by the river, and he pointed out a scary-looking Black Cayman on the bank.
After about 2 hours, we reached lake Nicaragua, the river's source, which is so large it may as well be an ocean. Near the river mouth is San Carlos, the only "city" on the southeastern side of lake Nicaragua. Almost all of Nicaragua, in fact, lives on the other side, along the high strip of land between the pacific coast and the lakes.
The disembarkation was easy, and we made our way up the pier in San Carlos to the immigration/customs station to find 4 extremely nice, friendly customs agents who stamped our passports, gave us direction to the bus station, and no joke, handed Chris and I each a package of condoms! Chris said thanks and held them up to me, and said "Disfruta Nicaragua". Also, I think Natalie was a little peeved they didn't give her any... not for her to use, but because girls are allowed to have equal opportunity sex too right?!
3:30 PM on the longest day ever:When we walked into town, it was pretty clear that we were now in Nicaragua. The grime and bustle were everywhere, and the noise constant. The first thing i saw was a little kiosk selling 3 foot machetes. I really wanted one, if just for a souvenir, but i knew we still had quite a backpacking trip ahead of us. And there was no way i wanted to carry a freakin 15 pound sword everywhere I went. We found out in San Carlos that the final town on our journey, San Miguelito, was only accessed directly by a bus that had left hours earlier, and it was the last of the day. My dad was expecting us in San Miguelito that night -- We had two options: the teller explained to me that there was a bus to another city that passed by a road near San Miguelito, and that citizens of San Miguelito drive 8 miles out of town to that intersection and pick up passengers that are dropped off at night. Or, we could wander San Carlos, try to find a hotel, and take the bus in the morning.
I think our sense of adventure, or excitement to make it to the ranch, or probably just Chris and my foolish pride got the best of us, and we decided we'd traveled tough all day, and we shouldn't give up now. So, we found a little comedor, ordered friend plantains, cheese, and gallo pinto. We wandered up the hill into town, and happened upon a beautiful cemetery. There was a community event going on, but we weren't sure what. People were dressed in white, pink, and bright colors, and the gravestones and tombs were decorated. It may be the most festive cemetery i've ever been to. Upon finding the bank to change money, we were greeted by two fully armed guards. One, from the military, had his hand on his AK-47. The other, a hired bank security guard, had an enourmous pump-action shotgun in his hand. They told us nicely that we couldn't bring our backpacks inside, and Chris and I joked with them that they could watch our bags outside and use deadly force, if necessary. They smiled, so it wasn't an inappropriate jooke or anything --- although i suppose i was secretly hoping they wouldn't think we were insulting them or something.
LANGUAGE IS THE KEY. It's like a separate reality when you speak Spanish -- You immediately stop being simply an alien tourist in their country, and are immediately treated like a person. I can't stress how important it was to maintain the Spanish communication with people. Even when i stumbled on a word i didn't know, they were happy to help me elaborate if i'd started out the conversation in Spanish.
Finally, when the 5:45 Bus to Nueva Guinea showed up, we hopped on and tried to get the best seats possible
5:45 PM on the longest day ever:The reason i talked about the Costa Rican buses earlier was because the Nicaraguan buses are kind of like that, except the complete opposite. The bus we ended up on was a retired US school bus. It was an old blue-bird -- probably the one you rode in elementary school -- Smelly, loud, bumpy, with torn vinyl seats and non-moving crappy windows. It was at least 30 years old, and there were only two obvious modifications made since it was toting around 5th graders in California. The first was a new set of speakers up in the front, which were used to blare Mexican music throughout the trip to both entertain and drown out the noise made by the engine and wheels struggling up hills on a 180 mile un-paved road. The second modification was to turn it from a boring yellow bus to a legitimate "fiesta bus". To do this, all that was required was a new candy-stripe red and white paint job, and buttloads of streamers both inside and outside the bus.
The ride on the FiestaBus was actually a lot of fun. The guy behind me was obviously drunk, but he chatted his head off to me about the land, and the hard-working people, and the inexcusibly crooked banks in Nicaragua that were keeping down the common man. Even though i didn't understand abou 30% of what he said, i offered my two cents, made a joke or two, and we had a really good conversation. He even bought me a gum ball from the vendor that was He asked me first if I was Tico. And while i know my Spanish is quite deficient, it was a HUGE compliment when he thought I was from Costa Rica :). Maybe he was just drunk... Either way, he'd never had a US Dollar before, so i gave him a a crispy new one-dollar George Washington greenback. But, he insisted on trading me for it, so he gave me 20 Cordobas for it. The exchange rate is like 18, so i actually came out a little better on the deal, but i think he's glad he's got it. Seems like he'll hold onto it and show his friends, rather than spend it.
When the fiesta-bus ride reached the deserted dirt road-dirt road intersection to San Miguelito, we grabbed our bags, hopped out into the absolute darkness with about 5 other passengers, and much to our relief, were greeted by a little white microbus. And in case you haven't heard of one, a microbus is exactly what you'd think. It can seat about 8 people, and is pronounced "meekro boos". We were off, down a dusty jungle road in total darkness in the Nicaraguan countryside, bouncing over giant rocks in the microbus en route to the sleepy town where my dad spent his childhood.
~9:30 PM on the longest day everThe last thing i remember my dad telling me about San Miguelito was that it was small, and that back in the 1920s and 1930s my Great-Grandfather was a town leader, and "knew" a large number of the local women, hahah. Apparently, the town is now littered with Vegas. I thought this was kind of a funny family legend or something.
When we got into town half an hour later, the money-collector lady in our van asked if i was going to the hotel (yes,
the hotel), and i said no, that we were going to the dock to meet my dad. She seemed a little confused, and asked why i'd go to the dock to meet him -- I told her we were meeting him there, and heading out to a finca (ranch). She then asked which ranch, and I told her Los Limones, after which she immediately lit up and got excited, and said "Eres Vega?!?" and I said yes, and she immediately told me she was some sort of cousin-aunt, also a Vega related to my great-grandfather. So, Marcia Vega ended up being the first new relative i met. She said the dock wasn't far, so we walked the few blocks to get there. Apperently word had gotten out, because a few blocks later, a 30-something guy pulled up on his motorcycle, said hi, and called me "Armandito". Another newly met Vega relative, who was Marcia's first cousin. I guess he assumed I was named Armando Jr. But, he told me he'd just seen my dad, who was looking for us. So, Natalie, Chris, and I finally made it into the dock and hotel area, saw a familiar rotund shape sitting in the rocking chair, dropped our bags, and gave my dad a huge, sweaty, long awaited hug.
Somehow i'd neglected to mention to Natalie that even though the ranch was right near San Miguelito, that it is not accessible by road -- even in the dry season. You can either go the long way on horseback, or up the river through the delta by boat. My mom was waiting for us at the Ranch, but we decided to get something to eat after our grueling all day trip. So, we walked to one of the only reastarants in town, and to my delight, it was named the "Restaurante Vega-Torres". The kitchen was closed, but my dad knocked and convinced his second-cousin tore-fire the stove, and we had a feast of chicken filet, beef, guineos, rice, beans, salad, and about 4 liters of beer. It left me full, satisfied, and about ready to fall asleep in my chair.
~11:30 PM on the longest day everGathering up our stuff, we trekked out to the dock, climbed down a rusty ladder into the leaky 5-person motorboat, met the full time ranch caretaker (Don Adrian), and took off into the pitch black lake. It was a little unnerving to see the few lights of San Miguelito dim in the distance, and a stretch of blackness and fog in every direction. Because of the recent drought, the water level in the river delta was exceptionally low. Low to the point that Adrian suggested we stay in San Miguelito that night. But, with my encouragement, my dad decided he'd made this little trip to the river mouth countless times throughout his life and could do it on this dark, cloudy, suffocatingly humid moonless night.
We were about 30 minutes out when the motor began making a daunting SCRAAPE sound, prompting my dad to immediately pull up the motor, to save it from destroying itself on the silt it was trying to propell us through. With our spotlights, we could see wood, islands, brambles, and all kinds of debris. We were looking for a marker that had been made to mark the slightly deeper channel the previous week when the water had become practically un-navigable. There was SO MUCH water, in every direction, but it was all like 4 inches deep. We all climbed to the front of the boat to try to counter-balance the motor and lift the back end up a little. This worked for a little while, but sure enough, we ran aground again within a few minutes, and realized we had absolutely no idea where the marker was, nor if we could even get to it without backtracking all the way back out to the lake. We used large wooden poles as levers to try to free the boat, and spent about an hour trying to get free. At that point, he made the executive decision to abandon our journey, admit defeat, and head back to San Miguelito. Unfortunately, it was ever more difficult to get back, and it took My Dad, Chris, Adrian, and me on pole duty, while Natalie was our timer... she yelled "One, Two, Three, HUUUU! One, Two, Three, HUUUU!". With the poles sticking in about 4 feet into the soft silt, getting out and pushing the boat was not an option, unless you are fond of quick sand. So, we spent the next hour groaning, pushing, and scooting until we forced our way back into open water, and high-tailed it back to San Miguelito. And, just to fuck with us, the fates decided to only leave us with a trickle of gasoline. When we finally made it back to the place we'd started on the San Miguelito dock, the engine was sputtering on the last fumes... Tired and muddy, i don't think anyone said another word that night.. We just woke up the hotel owner and got a few rooms.
We carried everything in from the dock, down the pier, and into our rooms. I always tease my dad about his enourmous belly, and he does the same to me. It's kind of an ongoing rivalry. And I jokingly tease him about being out of shape, or not to exert himself etc. And this goes on enough that sometimes I forget the kind of life he grew up living. And how he's had to deal with hardships and do things i've never had to worry about, and he's probably a lot tougher than i always give him credit for. This was re-affirmed when i walked back out of my room before bed, saw him standing in the foyer catching his breath. I walked up and said something smartass about having to carry a bag all the way from the dock through the mud. Then he kind of glanced over to the side at the black thing on the ground, and i realized that he'd just carried the whole fucking boat engine over a football field length from shore to the hotel. I didn't call him Gordo, I just fell asleep within 30 seconds of hitting the pillow.
That was where we'd made a reservation, and they'd sent the driver to meet us. He was a nice dude, and pointed out things on the island along the way. Altagracia was on the southeast corner of the island, and our hotel was in the north-central part. Because of the twin volcanoes, the island resembles a peanut shape, with one paved road encircling it. I was really looking forward to a real bed. One with a sufficient mattress, free of rogue springs and stinky paper smell. Hotel Paraiso certainly was the fanciest place we'd been to thus far, and it was reasonably comfortable. The bar was open, so we got a couple of absolutely delicious mango and grapefruit juices to store up sugars and electrolytes for the hike. With that we slept, woke up at 6:45, and went downstairs to meet our volcano tour guide.
