Security is an illusion. Life is either a daring adventure or it is nothing at all. — Melynda Czysz
Saturday, August 25, 2012 (DAYS 174 & 175)
After a restless night’s sleep, even though I have been afforded the luxury of an air-conditioned dorm room, it is just after 6:30am and I know that I have a long day of travel in front of me as I’m returning back to my current home of SJDS. Taking full advantage of the free coffee at La Botella de Luche, I sit alone on the couch and enjoy my kick-start of caffeine in the morning. Reflecting upon my travels thus far and the heavy thoughts of all that has recently occurred back home, I still find comfort in knowing that I have made the right choice in my life, even as hard as it may be given the circumstances, but I also knew that if I had not pursued this dream in my heart that it would have been one of life’s greatest regrets for me. While my presence may be in Costa Rica, my thoughts are certainly back home in Colorado. Pausing to look at my watch, the time is almost 7am and I have a bus to catch. Pulling my small rucksack over my shoulders I walk past the colorful courtyard surrounding the hostel that has a small pool in the center, that unfortunately I never made my way into mainly because I already have access to an even larger pool at the Surfing Donkey, but enjoyed this very tranquil hostel that I’d suggest a visit to while in Tamarindo.
After a restless night’s sleep, even though I have been afforded the luxury of an air-conditioned dorm room, it is just after 6:30am and I know that I have a long day of travel in front of me as I’m returning back to my current home of SJDS. Taking full advantage of the free coffee at La Botella de Luche, I sit alone on the couch and enjoy my kick-start of caffeine in the morning. Reflecting upon my travels thus far and the heavy thoughts of all that has recently occurred back home, I still find comfort in knowing that I have made the right choice in my life, even as hard as it may be given the circumstances, but I also knew that if I had not pursued this dream in my heart that it would have been one of life’s greatest regrets for me. While my presence may be in Costa Rica, my thoughts are certainly back home in Colorado. Pausing to look at my watch, the time is almost 7am and I have a bus to catch. Pulling my small rucksack over my shoulders I walk past the colorful courtyard surrounding the hostel that has a small pool in the center, that unfortunately I never made my way into mainly because I already have access to an even larger pool at the Surfing Donkey, but enjoyed this very tranquil hostel that I’d suggest a visit to while in Tamarindo.
Unsure of the exact location where the bus to Liberia picks up, I begin walking down the dirt gravel road in the direction of the beach and what I’ve gathered is the center of town. Even though my time in Costa Rica is a short stay, the beach is exactly as what I pictured in my head; gorgeous stretches of sandy beach in both directions with palm trees that welcome you before hitting the shoreline, where once again the horizon meets the sky across the open water of the ocean. I feel as though I could never grow tired of enjoying this view, and continue to relish in all of the times I have had to view it from different countries throughout Central America, and hopefully around the globe. After talking with a local that is peddling past me on his bicycle as he balances his surfboard in the one free hand that is not attached to the handlebar, he points to a small covered bench that already has two women sitting on it. Still trying to wake up and already feeling the fatigue of sitting in buses most of the day, I walk around stretching my legs as the two middle-aged women continue their lively conversation in fast talking Spanish. 7am, and a large red bus arrives prompting the women to rise quickly and walk across the street to jump aboard. Glancing at the front of the bus, it reads a different destination, and so I walk back to the bench and decide to take a seat as the sun is beginning to heat up the cool humid morning air. Five minutes later and I have a new companion that sparks up a conversation about whether or not I am Chinese or Japanese. This has become a standard question as most locals are quite interested in my nationality, and even when I tell them that I’m an American, the repetitive question is always, “no, I mean where are you from?” Often, to avoid these questions about my physical appearance I wish I were English, Australian, French, or maybe more fitting German with a last name like Hendershott. But then, I realize I enjoy good oral hygiene and so I will politely pass on being British, I heart Aussies but a country founded by English criminals, c’mon man, the French, yeah you’re right ‘nuff said, and zee Germans, well, I’m just too friendly to be a true Deutchlander. Oh, the laughs about various stereotypes of the countries of people that I have met would certainly have a good laugh at these analogies. The discussion about my heritage continues, but there is an opening in the conversation that allows me to ask when the bus for Liberia arrives and I am told 9am. Debating whether or not to take this information as absolute fact, I decide that since schedules and time mean little in this region of the world and not wanting to miss the bus, I hold back the hunger and sit patiently hoping for an earlier bus. This does not happen, and two hours later I climb aboard as the lone passenger heading towards Liberia.
The bus from Playa Tamarindo to Liberia this time is only 900 colones ($1.80) and it is also the same price for the bus from Liberia back to Peñas Blancas. This is ironic to me since one bus is two and a half hours, while the other is only 90 minutes, but since I am paying about a dollar less I can’t really complain, and when could you ever travel in the States such distances for such a small amount? Since there is no exit fee for Costa Rica, I am guided across the quarter mile dirt road that is the limbo state, which exists between Nicaragua and Costa Rica. Upon entering the large familiar white office building that either grants or denies entry into Nicaragua, I am lead to a small plexi-glass booth directly in front of the line for customs and I am told that there is a $1 USD charge. Thinking that maybe Lonely Planet was off by $1 for the entrance fee, I hand over a single dollar bill and am given a stamped official piece of paper. Quickly spotting an opening at the only booth that is open that is also absent of any people lined up in front of it, I race off with my passport in hand.
The re-entry to Nicaragua is a much easier operation, and it is not until I attempt to slide over the $1 stamped piece of paper, that I am given a look by the border agent which says it all. I have just been gringo’d! Not paying close enough attention, I look down to the small white piece of paper with the blue stamp which that thanks me for my special contribution to the officials of Nicaragua, to whom that is, is anyone’s guess. The entry fee for Nicaragua, however, is a legitimate $12 USD and I am given a new 90-day stamp in my passport as well as two other documents that I have safely tucked inside the back pages of my passport that I will hold tightly too in order to avoid the previous headache of a situation that I experienced just the day before. More confusion as the only bus I see that is heading North is a Tica bus and I ask the driver how much to get to Rivas, and he tells me $10 USD. Knowing this is a ridiculous amount, I ask an elderly woman selling a variety of beverages where the chicken buses for Rivas congregate and she points with her wrinkled finger across the gate past the line of semi trucks. As I walk up looking for a late model Bluebird school bus that is plastered with a variety of decals from the Mercedes symbol to various religious pictures and drawings, I am hassled again by a group of taxi drivers. Sticking to my guns–such an American phrase, I tell them that I am in no rush and will patiently wait for the next bus however long it may be since it is only 2:45pm. Knowing that I am alone, I am being closely watched even in the middle of the day because of this reason, and what feels like an eternity ends up being only about twenty minutes before the magnificent bright yellow chicken bus with red flames down the sides rolls towards me and I jump on. Taking a seat, which is always a precious luxury, I gladly pay the C$20 (0.84 cents), even through I know it should only be C$15 córdobas, but am I really about to argue over .21 cents?
Jumping off the bus as we pass the roundabout for SJDS, I walk across the road to the bus stop about one hundred yards on my right, where I meet two other Americans from Arizona that are also traveling in the same direction. The standard conversation amongst new travelers is always the same Q&A of where we have been and are going, etcetera, etcetera, and before we can begin into what I like to call actual conversing, the bus has arrived. Thirty-five minutes and C$10 (0.42) later and I feel as though I have returned home as we pull up beside the Mercado of San Juan del Sur. Covered in sweat, exhausted, famished, and sleep deprived, I begin the short walk across central park and through the front gates of the hostel where I proceed to collapse on my bed. Taking several minutes to relax, I come out to see that Keenan has taken up my suggestion to stay at the Surfing Donkey. Apologizing for my lack of energy, the sun is fading and so am I. Just glad to be back at home, in the relative familiarity of my bed, I get comfortable, but am unable to fall asleep. The insomnia that prevails, I find myself checking a variety of things on my iPhone while laying in bed, when I receive a tsunami warning for the entire Pacific coastline from Mexico to Panama. Apparently a 7.3 earthquake occurred just off the coast of El Salvador 54km (33.6 miles) in the Pacific, and now trying to find sleep is going to be even more difficult wondering if the 3.5 meters above sea level that is SJDS will be enough. Wishing I had a snorkel mask and waterwings to sleep in, I somehow, doze off hoping to awake dry.
RSS Feed
