The results you achieve will be in direct proportion to the effort you apply. – Denis Waitley
Wednesday, June 6, 2012 (DAY 94)
Waking up in a pool of sweat, and a slight mixture of sand, I find myself stuck on the top bunk again rolled up like a hot dog as the sides of the mattress curl up around me. Convinced that we have found the worst beds in all of Central America, or at least very close, it’s 6:45am and I am just thankful that I didn’t crush Lindsay in my sleep as she lays below me in a contraption of thin metal and scraps of wood to form our current sleeping death trap. The furnace room, that is our dorm, was intolerable from the moment we entered to it, and the excitement in the air to leave this rundown establishment owned by an older American couple that treats their local staff horribly motivates us to begin packing up for our 10:30am departure. Cramming into a Toyota Land Cruiser for the five-hour journey to the southern coast of Nicaragua and the highly touted, San Juan del Sur, the ride becomes more crowded as the driver announces his wife will be joining us, which also includes her friend as well. The vehicle that seats seven has been transformed in typical fashion to fit nine people and our final destination cannot be reached soon enough.
Waking up in a pool of sweat, and a slight mixture of sand, I find myself stuck on the top bunk again rolled up like a hot dog as the sides of the mattress curl up around me. Convinced that we have found the worst beds in all of Central America, or at least very close, it’s 6:45am and I am just thankful that I didn’t crush Lindsay in my sleep as she lays below me in a contraption of thin metal and scraps of wood to form our current sleeping death trap. The furnace room, that is our dorm, was intolerable from the moment we entered to it, and the excitement in the air to leave this rundown establishment owned by an older American couple that treats their local staff horribly motivates us to begin packing up for our 10:30am departure. Cramming into a Toyota Land Cruiser for the five-hour journey to the southern coast of Nicaragua and the highly touted, San Juan del Sur, the ride becomes more crowded as the driver announces his wife will be joining us, which also includes her friend as well. The vehicle that seats seven has been transformed in typical fashion to fit nine people and our final destination cannot be reached soon enough.
Arriving in San Juan del Sur shortly after 3:30pm, our group fights off being gringo’d by our driver’s wife as she continues to argue that the exchange rate is 24 to 1, which our group of college educated individuals refuse to budge from the world currency exchange app that declares it is 23 to 1, and thereby saving us close to $9. Not getting gringo’d today, amigos. The rule continues to remain faithful, traveling in a group is typically a bit cheaper, especially when negotiating with locals than traveling solo, plus the benefits in situations such as these allows for less chances of being bullied or cornered in to decisions. Hot, tired, exhausted, and hungry, we decide to grab a late lunch at Café El Barrio and discuss our options for a place to stay. Patiently waiting to hear back from a friend of John Wayne and Julie’s that might know of a house for us all to rent at a reasonable price, we throw in the towel after several failed attempts to meet up. Hesitant in beginning our aimless search for shelter for the night, we stumble upon an elderly woman sitting in a green plastic chair on the sidewalk in front of a building and as she sees our group approaching, she begins the verbal assault of a sales onslaught of attempts for us to just come in and view her private room that is available.
Sold on an air conditioned den of pleasure at only $7 per person for the private room that is all too familiar of a summer camp dorm, within minutes and we have the long narrow room equivalent to frigid temperatures of a walk-in refrigerator compared to the sultry outdoor heat. Ditching my shirt in the arctic-like temperatures, I am no longer smuggling peanuts through my white t-shirt, thereby removing the crazy, wild-eyed expression on Lindsay’s now creepy face. After explaining to her that no means no, I decide to be the first person to grab a quick shower. Spending twenty minutes barricading the door with random pieces of heavy objects, I am convinced I can take a shower free of harassment from what I now refer to her as, The Victorian Peeper. The rest of our night is spent lounging in complete luxury, as it’s been over three months of feeling the modern convenience of cooled recycled air on my skin.
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