We rode a chicken bus from León to Managua en route to Granada. After a few hours on a chicken bus on roads that only barely qualify to possess that title, a band of Yankiwi travelers is a tired one. We were lucky enough to meet a guy on the bus who gave us turn by turn instructions on the best way to get to Grenada. Our luck, as it would turn out, ended there.
When we got off the bus and he left us, we were assaulted by the normal brigade of taxi drivers who cling to foreigners like poop covered, iron filled, gum to the bottom of a glue covered, magnetic shoe. But since it was Managua, a major city, the numbers were at least triple what they would be any other place. One portly gentlemen with quite an equally robust sense of entitlement cut in front of everyone in what was a loosely organized line to make our acquaintance. We told him that with the 5 of us,the bags, and the surfboards we needed a truck or a van. He assured us that this would be no problem and then promptly escorted us to his taxi, something akin to a Geo Metro, or a Chevy Metro if you were born in the mid 90's. This clearly would not suit our needs, and he clearly, was an idiot. Now before you judge me too harshly for judging him, finish the story so that you might benefit from hindsight. This was not a judgement made in haste. But more of an objectively reached conclusion founded on the basis of solid empirical evidence and careful critical thinking.
Its important to mention that there was a tremendous amount of commotion goring on all around us. And other taxi drivers began to circle around as we tried to explain our situation to our chubby, greasy friend. We were the only patrons at this relatively vast taxi parking lot. We told him again that we needed a truck or a van because of our surfboards, luggage, bodies, etc. He then began to argue with us telling us that we didnt. We assured him we did and he assured us we didnt. This went on for what seemed like an eternity before he pointed across the parking lot to a truck. We agreed that this is what we had been looking for the whole time. Then he walked us over to the truck. Only he stopped short about six feet because he was actually pointing at the car sitting directly in front of the truck that was exactly what we had been looking for. It began to feel like we were in a sitcom. He told us that this was a "camioneta" as if we were stupid and hadn't been travelling through central america for almost 2 months. That in and of itself was not an insane assumption. However, im fairly certain that he was also operating under the assumption that we didnt speak any Spanish even though i had been negotiating with him and the horde of other taxi drivers in Spanish for the last 15 minutes.
The "camioneta" in front of the actual camioneta was just a chevy/geo metro with a hatchback. Whatever the situation is with the education system in Managua, they are assuredly spending too much money developing the spatial skills of street dogs, and not enough developing those of adult taxi drivers. This inversion of effort, upon reflection, is a bit scary. There was another few rounds of me explaining that we needed a truck like the one next to us, and another few rounds of him telling us we didnt. When he finally agreed with us that our stuff wouldnt fit, he told us that trucks like that didnt exist and there was no way we could find a ride in one. He then suggeseted we take two cars. This is where my bullshit meter malfunctioned because it didnt have a corresponding scale of measurement to convey what this guy was feeding us. I recounted for him all the cities in which we had found camionetas and told him we would have no problem finding one on our own. Then he began to insult us, and presumably the campesinos by making jokes about horse drawn carriages and saying we didnt know what we were talking about. After another eternity of telling him we wouldnt split up and we wouldnt take two cars (for which he wanted twice the already inflated gringo price) we told him we wouldnt be requiring his services. He argued with us some more and started trying to jack up the price on us a little more. Then he changed his story.
Not more than 90 seconds later did a real camioneta pull up. Only he now wanted an exorbitant price for the ride. He wanted more than the price of taking two taxis. I told him, patiently at first, that it was too much. He tried to tell me gas was $7 a gallon and trucks take way more gas than the cars and that it was a long distance. He said the only thing that takes more gas than a camioneta was a stair car. Again, he was assuming our stupidity and it was beginning to wear on me. I dont generally mind people assuming that im stupid. In fact, its the safer and often more correct assumption in most situations. But i did mind that he was trying to scam all of us. So to let him know that he was going to have to work a little harder to scam us, i sought to show him that we did possess at least a small modicum of intelligence. I let him know that gas in Nicaragua is measured by the liter. Then i broke down the math for him that there are 3.8 liters in a gallon. Then i multiplied it by the cordoba per liter price. Then did the exchange. In the end, fuel was just over $3.50 per gallon. He didnt bring up the gas issue again. But he was willing to work a little harder.
He continued to insist on a ridiculous price for the ride, though. Wanting to ease the tension a little bit, i asked if the price included lunch for five. That got a laugh out of all the taxi drivers. But he wasnt terribly amused. I told him it was a simple choice between a fair amount of money or no money. He insisted. We picked up our bags, told him thanks but no thanks, took three steps, then he changed his mind.
We loaded up our stuff and the man we were negotiating with, even though he wasnt the driver decided to accompany us on the trip. Red flag 1. In all our time in Central America, excepting the times we caught a ride from a family, there was only ever us and one driver. As we were going down the street toward the area where the bus station was, a woman on the street began waving at us wildly and screaming "NO!" Red flag 2. We shrugged it off, assuming she wasnt addressing us, but one of the other hundreds of people on the street. After a bit, they pulled into a busy gas station, up to the air machine. I began to get a little nervous. But we looked at the tires and they were a little low so my apprehension subsided. The chubby, greasy guy went into the station and came out and told us we needed to pay them. Red flag 3. We had never paid anyone in advance except for shuttle service. We all sort of assumed they needed money for gas or to put air in the tires or something. This is where our naivete got the best of us. We went into the gas station to get correct change and they waited patiently. We paid them. And the greaseball said to take us the rest of the way we had to give them more money. He said the price we agreed on was the price for one car, but this was a truck and we had to pay more. The driver stood silent the whole time. An argument ensued with me first trying to reason with them, and rapidly realizing that was a futile endeavour as they had set out to do exactly what they had done, regardless of the agreement we reached back at the taxi lot. I tried to tell him that they had swindled us. Good job. And that they could keep half of what we paid them for taking us halfway. Predictably, he refused. The conversation degraded into a shouting match of name calling while a small crowd of gas station patrons watched from a distance, undoubtedly entertained.
The strange thing was, the driver and chubs didnt seem to be going anywhere. I think they actually had it in their heads that we were going to break down and just pay them the rest. After digging deep into my lexicon of rarely used Spanish words and calling them thieves and liars with various profane adjectives attached, they were still just trying to get more money from us. They were trying to convince us that we had no agreement at the taxi lot and various other ridiculous flat out lies. There were no issues with translation. They were simply trying to swindle us. All of this was going on in the parking lot at the rear of the truck when i noticed they, so confident in the idea that we would pay and the trip would continue with barely a pause, left the keys in the ignition. At that point i just walked over to the drivers side, fully expecting and willing to get bopped in the back of the head, and took the keys. Having a bit of leverage, the conversation changed. The driver remained silent. But the greaseball was visibly shaken. He adopted sort of a "come on" tone as if what had happened was a surreal occurence. He took a moment to recompose himself and then used the scariest weapon he had at his disposal, the threat of central american prison. He said he was going to call the police and they would put the cuffs on without asking any questions. I told him i doubted it and offered to dial the number for him. He pretended to call the police. I'm pretty sure he just called the hot cops. He pretended to have a conversation with them. And then he pretended to be waiting for them to show up while he continued to try and get his keys back. The price was simple, return our money and we return the keys. Normally an easy decision, but i have a feeling that egos were at stake here. The last thing he wanted to do was have to return to the taxi stand and explain to all his friends, who were almost certainly aware of his scheme, that he had been outdone.
We talked for a little longer before he realized that i was neither afraid to explain the situation to the police, nor was i going to just hand him back the keys. Among the ideas we entertained as a group of yankiwis were:
1. Throw the keys in the dense jungle next to the gas station and then take one of the several cabs that were waiting at the gas station for the situation to resolve.
2. Remove three or four of them and give them back, letting him discover what we had done only when he went to unlock his house or open his garage to dip in to his lifetime supply of crisco which he used as both a meal replacement and a skin cream.
3. The always classic puncture a tire.
About then he upped the level of his performance quite a bit by adopting a composure of exasperation, raising his arms, and then walking to the other side of the intersection as if waiting for the police he had called. The only problem is we had seen that exact same act on a telenovela a few days before and the gas station was by far the clearest landmark in the area. Wherever he went he just got lost in a crowd of people. During this time we heard two seperate sirens and i would be lying if i didnt say my adrenaline spiked a bit. But both turned out to be amulances. And when i remembered that police response in latin america was just an urban legend, my heartrate returned to normal.
So then it was just us and the driver... and all our crap. He had been remarkably silent through the whole ordeal and it occured to us that maybe he was a less than willing participant in the scheme but had come along for fear of schoolyard (taxi lot) ridicule or something. So we tried to organize a mutiny. I asked him if that guy was his boss. When he answered no, i asked him then if he was his dog and if he could think for himself or if he just takes orders. His inherent machismo wounded, his defense was down, and our chances for success were hgh. So we offered him a little extra money to take us the rest of the way under the condition that he leave that (Spanish expletive) behind. He took pause for a moment, considered seriously, and then just asked for the keys back. He seemed a bit pathetic and tired. Remembering we were in a Catholic culture, i said some sarcastic and manipulative things to him about how his rewards were in heaven and then threw the keys in the bed of truck. But on the other side where he had to reach for them. Booyah! We hopped in a geo/chevy metro taxi who was more than happy to take us the rest of the way. All our stuff did fit, although im pretty sure we violated at least three laws of the physical universe in the process of making it happen. We had a good laugh about it when we made our bus and everything and everyone was safe. We all agreed that was the most stressful $2.50 we had ever lost and decided it was the principle of it all that justified the felony and possible incarceration. We also agreed that if it had been 50 cents more we would have slit both their throats in the name of democracy and capitalism and been welcomed home as heroes. $3.00 incidentally, is the cost of a dozen papusas and if you had one you would also agree that the life of that man and his puppy were worth far less than 12 of El Salvador's greatest contribution to mankind.
In hindsight I'm a little embarrassed that I lost my cool and escalated the situation to the point that it got. But i think its a rite of passage for any person trying to learn a new language to be able to speak it under pressure. And so this experience taught me that while I should try to remain in a state of compassion for all of God's creatures, it turns out that i have a working knowledge of some of the most horrendous things one person can say to another in Spanish. And i can draw on that knowledge even under duress. I have to say im proud. From now on though, im committed to letting the money and the principle go in these situations and sparing the unnecessary agitation, at least until i try to learn another language. Besides, we have to take responsibility. We should have known the second we saw that gold chain and greasy chest hair not to give the guy even an inch of trust.
Granada ended up being an oasis of peace and tranquility given the events of our day. We arrived mid afternoon to the tree shaded central square where people were wlking hand in hand, passing the afternoon engaged in pleasant conversation on park benches, and one lady had a pet monkey. Pleased, we asked a man where we could find a hostel. Without even a hint of scam in his voice, he pointed us in the direction of a street with many hostels. We followed his directions and ran across a Nicaraguan dressed how any hip hop culture youth in the US might dress. His English was way too good and his colloquialisms way to developed for our comfort, having just had the last of our trust sapped out of us. But he was entertaining and eager to help. Lacking the energy for more argument we asked him staright away what the catch was. He explained that he was a creative man and for us, there was no catch. It turned out to be the truth. We watched in amazement the rest of our time in Granada as he extorted a commission from every single business establishment we frequented. I had to admire the ingenuity even if i didnt fully appreciate the lack of tact. And he did get us our first plate of chinese food in months. It was real chinese food of massive quantity, with plenty of msg. And aside from the gastrointestinal implications, it cost next to nothing. He would continue to escort/follow us for the rest of our stay in Granada, getting whatever it is he got wherever it was we went the whole time. He also had a pretty articulate knowledge of the history of Granada and took us on a walking tour of the city which involved some pretty nice views that i think are only available to people on the unofficial tour. And when we went to leave Granada for a fairly obscure surf beach on the coast, he arranged a shuttle and accompanied us the whole way there to make sure we arrived without incident and probably to get a commission from someone at whatever hostel we decided to stay at.
The shuttle ride ended up being one of the most authentic experiences of the trip. The shuttle was a 60's era VW bus and the mode of transport foreshadowed what was to come. When we first saw it it had two front seats and a bench seat, room for 5. So we figured someone would be riding piso. But when it returned, after a pre trip tune up i guess, there had magically appeared another rear facing bench seat in the bus. Now there was room for everyone and a seating arrangement conducive to conversation and also board games. Providing of course that the board games have magnetic chess pieces and that your opponent, in a moment of desperation doesnt "accidentally" drop the board rendering a 3 hour game of bus chess for naught. On top of that, the road was undeveloped and was impeded by rivers. After 3 unexplained stops and a fourth where the amicable driver filled the beast with motor oil from a mason jar, we were on our way. At the first river crossing we were told to take all our belongings off the floor as it would soon become an aquatic environment. We happily obliged and waited for the floor to fill with water and fish and octopi. Disappoiningly, it didnt. And the four other rivers we crossed left nothing more than a damp floor rather than the watery wonderland we had been led to hope for.
When we finally got to the beach and after careful consideration (about which was the cheapest) we chose to stay at the french hippie hostel. This is what the vw bus had foreshadowed and it seemed like a right choice. The marketing, if one could call it that, seemed to imply that the hostel was geared toward the surfing community. However, no one seemed to surf. And like the Mexican Joann Fabrics, it was impossible to tell who was working there and who had accidentally stumbled upon the property and just never got around to leaving. Come to think of it, thats probably how all of them, even the owners, got there. All they did all day was smoke that stuff that would always come out of the van in Scooby Doo cartoons. Thats all. Ever. Oh, and grow their dreads out. We did eventually learn to identify them by their french accents and blank, listless stares. But this proved to be a worthless development as they only engaged themeselves in the two tasks mentioned before. Any questions one had about the establishment were greeted with a blank listless stare followed by sort of a non answer which technically qualified them as having addressed you, and made you feel just awkward nough that you didnt want to press for further non-information. The beds in the hostel smelt of neglect and shattered dreams which is just a fancy way of saying hippies and biological material. And for the first time in my life, those around me understood why i have spent the last 10 years of my life dilligently cultivating a practice of floor sleeping. While our companions and the other guests spent an evening becoming host to scabies, i slept comfortably on the concrete and woke up refreshed in the morning to tackle another day of doing absolutely nothing.
Only instead of doing nothing we decided to change a lazy beach into a site of chaos and confusion. And this we did deftly. Choosing to depart for possibly better surf and less treacherous bedding, we contacted a man whose card we had been given the night before. He offered a shuttle service. When we contacted him, he said $75 for the five of us. But we had been told he made the trip for $50. Negotiations were in order. But first he mentioned that he would be there at 2 o'clock. And then, like a total jerk, the phone cut out. We couldnt get a hold of him again. But the guy whose phone we had been using said he had a friend who would drive us for $55. More eager for the sure thing, as a misstep in this matter would surely end with some kind of undiscovered skin syphilis for the bed sleepers, we confirmed the trip. Passing the day was easier than we thought it would have been because of lunch. Dedicated to having the freshest ingredients, they waited until we actually ordered our tacos to start growing the corn for our tortillas. And in the distance we heard the faint sound of mooing as the carne was slaughtered. Right then a helicopter landed with a single head of lettuce flown in from Yuma, because the climate in near equatorial beach towns isnt quite right for growing lettuce. And a quick 16 hours later, we each had one taco. We were still hungry but feared ordering another as our fingernails had grown to dangerous lengths while waiting for the first. And when we say we ordered, we actually had to write down what we wanted on a piece of paper and give it to the cooks. Because the girl who was supposed to be taking our order was busy watching nick cannon drum his way to success and love in the timeless and percussive hit film, Drumline... dubbed in Spanish. So when we went to order she made sort of a motion for us to be quiet and sort of pointed in the direction of a pen and little torn up scraps of paper. We figured out the rest on our own.
While eating Andrew, a member of the disgraceful kiwi party with whom we were travelling, came over excitedly. A truck had just come from San Juan del Sur, where we were headed. And he didnt have anyone to take back. So he would be willing to do it for $40. Having all the required qualities of cheap and certain, we jumped at the opportunity. There was some mention of fireworks. And even now, i have no idea if he was going to throw in some fireworks, or take us to see fireworks, or if fireworks is slang for cocaine. Sadly, we would never come to find out. As we sprinted wildly to get our stuff together, the guy we had called initially, Fidel, showed up. Even though solid confirmation had not been made, he showed up just in case something bad had happened. Noble. But still Richie smelt blood and began the negotiation. As that went down, the other guy showed up as well, an hour ahead of schedule, just to really complicate things. So now we had three drivers, wher in the morning we were concerned about securing a single one. One driver with a proven good nature, one driver with a promise of fireworks or cocaine or whatever. And one driver with cool stickers on his car. In the end we went with the driver with the good nature because he spoke english very well, was the first one we had called, and cocaine is cheaper in colombia anyway. The other guy extorted 10 bucks out of us for having made the trip. He then bought ten dollars worth of stickers. His children didnt eat that night. Bastard.
Fidel ended up being a good choice because he had an Ipod with Thriller on it and could do the whole dance while driving through lakes they call puddles in the jungle. All the gear and all of us got to San Juan del Sur safely. And Fidel even took us to the border when it was time to cross into Costa Rica and helped us navigate the rather hectic system. He didnt actually leave the truck. But he did give us some great warnings and pointers that we hadnt previously heard. Things like "Always leave a note," and "thats why you dont yell." You know, the kind of lessons that one carries with them for a lifetime.
San Juan del Sur was like any other beach town. Except there was a giant statue of Jesus on a mountain over the bay, arms outstretched, welcoming all into his glorious presence. At night, it was the only that could be seen in the darkness. Like a conveniently anglicized mountaintop star, he shined as a beacon of hope to all those down on the sea illuminating the way for us all regardless of our past wrongs. Naturally, we decided to run up the mountain to the giant Jesus the following evening. Such was his gravity. Shoe laces tight, wills steeled, we set out on our journey. It was quite a distance. And the hills were steep. But what wouldnt one do to be in the presence of a giant stone god. Especially when the ice cream store had closed and ladies night didnt begin for another 3 hours. We ran and ran, our calves burned and cried out for mercy as the lactic acid filled our muscles. Our breathing became labored in the thick, wet tropical air. Our hearts pumped at a dangerous rate. The exertion, at times, was too much. But we always pressed on, always persevered. As we got closer to the Christ, i started to notice things about our surroundings that make a person like me, a devoted a cynic, a bit suspicious. Affluence started to appear. And when we ran up a hill past not one, but two helipads, i began to feel as though something was awry.
Now i can understand one helipad. Every neighborhood in the world has a helipad. But two? That means that at some point, some guy who lived in a sleepy beach town in Nicaragua was flying home in his helicopter, and when he got their, someone had already parked in his space. And this had apparently happened enough times that all the helicopter traffic necessitated the construction of a helicopter parking lot. As we got higher and higher in the mountains, and the breeds of dogs barking at us from behind 18 foot fences with vitorian themed ironwork became rarer and rarer, we knew we had left the part of nicaragua where they used the wood from shupwrecked boats to make their houses. But i guess it made sense. Because this was Jesus's hood. And that guy rocked some expensive shit when he was alive, and white, and spoke English. So we continued on our jouney up hills that were just this side of vertical. There were times where i wished i had my rock climbing harness. Eventually we came to the last ascent. We all powered a little harder and as we came up over the hill, right before our wanting eyes rose up into the heavens a big, huge, glorious.... gate. We stood confounded. A local man, hearing the guard dogs barking came from around behind a rock. There was an admission to see the Jesus. It was the equivalent of 50 cents. We had failed to plan for such an eventuality and forgot to bring our wallets and money on our multi mile jungle mountain run to see the savior of man. He wouldnt let us in. But it makes sense i guess. Jesus was only ever interested in those with money. And how many times have you ever jumped in your helicopter and forgotten your wallet. Even if you did, theres always the $100 grand emergency cash you keep in the fuselage in case someone has an impromptu cocktail party and runs out of aged russian beluga caviar or whatever. So i guess the system works. The road to salvation is lined with helicopter pads, houses with three seperate outdoor pools, a gate, and a 50 cent admission that no one can afford in a place where the normal people make $200 a year.
Dejected, we did what anyone who has a flexible interpretation of the law and grey area morals would do. We jumped a fence, went through some barbed wire, climbed a rock, and evetually by the grace of Jesus himself, peed in one of the vacant lots waiting for another 8000 square foot house. It was sunset over the ocean, the view was stunning, and we were safe under watchful eyes of a big stone Jesus. That was the most sublime whiz i have ever taken in my life. I doubt i will ever be able to top it. Then we ran back to our hostel for a proper night of Nicaraguan debauchery. Which is to say it followed the general pattern. I fell asleep at about 10 before we ever made it to the bar, exhausted and lame. And sometime, somewhere, a little later in the night any combination of 2 out of the 3 kiwis found themselves naked in public, with lackluster drunken spanish language skills, and a well emptied glass of national rum. Calen found an English language marathon of South Park and The Office on late night Nicaraguan television. And it was for this reason that i was sorry i had fallen asleep.
And on to Costa Rica... for like 10 seconds.
