We passed a couple of groups who had paid the extra money for a guide. Whenever we saw them staring up into the canopy we would nonchalantly wander over to get a glimpse of whatever it was they were staring at. Suckers. The only bummer was that most animals hang out deep in the jungle - or in the canopy, which can be upwards to 100 feet above you - so pretty much all the guides came equipped with a telescope; a telescope they were not going to let us use. Shortly after thinking, "this is it?", we ducked down a side trail. Here it was, the jungle. This would be the test. I was now hiking on a true rainforest jungle path, in flip flops. It was raining so hard that puddles obscured most of the path. Sometimes hiking uphill meant battling a
small stream cascading down the rugged terrain. I felt I was doing very well. Even Ryan commented,
"I can't believe how agile you are in those." We hiked up to a
scenic view all the while people birdman'ed the hell out of each other. Oh, you forgot about the Birdman game, huh? It was situations like this that weeded out the dedicated players to the fly-by-nights. I wisely did not partake in the game, but I did play sidekick for some of their schemes. The challenging trail demanded everyone's full attention and focus. A lot of times we would have to warn the people bringing up the rear of upcoming
perils. This weakened everyone's normal heightened awareness to the birdman game. If I was the 2nd in line the person in front of me would get in birdman position. As he called out, I would step out of the way just as everyone took a gander. I got to hand it to the players, they were a dedicated bunch. People were laying down in puddles, in questionable foliage, and on serious rough terrain. One time Tom even laid down on the edge of a cliff. a
CLIFF! We learned from some passing groups to watch for falling leaves. That usually indicated an animal overhead, but with the rain, leaves were constantly falling. Over time I temporarily forgot about my credit card and worked towards
having a good tiiiiime. It was the reality of the situation. There was nothing I could do to change it so I might as well focus on living life the best I could. -Andres Javier Diaz 5:17.
We found another path that led us to a raging stream not too much unlike the one we crossed a day earlier. Again, there was a tree serving as a bridge. It was like a smaller version of that scene in Goonies. We split into groups; those that balanced their way across, and those that walked through the water using the log as a handrail. I didn't want to end up like Francis so I was a part of the latter. The path emptied out onto a
secluded beach with a rainforest wall on
either end. I reenacted for everyone the final tear-jerking scene from the cinematic masterpiece Point Break. "He's not coming back," I dramatically delivered in my best Keanu voice. On the corner of the beach was a huge coral reef, boulder thing covered in snails. We climbed atop it and watched the ocean for a moment before returning to the trail. We reached the main trail and found out that the one we came from had actually been closed. whoops! We're such rebels that the large "DANGER" signs do nothing to deter us; that or we're just too stupid to read. Next stop:
MONKEY BEACH!
Unfortunately those thieving monkeys were nowhere to be found, but we did run into our Canadian friend, Christa. She was unnaturally nice and wholesome. The kind of person you feel awkward cursing around. She decided to join us for the last portion of the path which was the most intense. We caught some amazing views, but the majority of the time was spent staring at the ground so that we didn't slip and fall to our death. A monkey could've been smoking a cigarette right next to us and we would've never have known. Water hazards seemed to be our biggest obstacle on this particular path. My feet were filthy and getting sore from the one-size-too-small flip flops so I would take every opportunity to wade into small streams. It didn't occur to me until the end that maybe I should mind my surroundings. Some indigenous parasite could climb into my pee hole or something. Like I said before, at times I forgot I was even in the rainforest because it felt so much like being back home. The only thing I'd have to worry about encountering in a stream back home would probably be a human turd. I became a little more cautious after that. While Phil and I lagged behind he surmised, "imagine, this is kind of what it was like for soldiers in Vietnam, but they didn't have paths." This sparked a little, "RED TEAM! ALPHA! CHARLIE! GO!," as I mimed holding a rifle and slowly scanned the jungle for my enemies.
Coincidentally, the rain stopped as we reached the exit of the park. The exit being a 20 foot wide, raging
moat that emptied into the ocean further down. (ed note: I found that pic online.) Without an opportunity to consider our options, really there weren't many, a man in a rowboat began preparing to ferry us across. There was no discussion of price, or any conversation at all for that matter. If Ryan hadn't clued in the first timers, we wouldn't have even known that the boat men expected two dollars per person. I couldn't gauge how deep it was, but the stream looked pretty swift so there was no way I was going to chance a swimming attempt. Phil and Tom, on the other hand, jumped right in. We loaded into the boat for our literal 30 second ride. Naturally, I walked to the front of the boat and put one foot up on the bow as if I were leading the expedition. The poor-man's gondolier guided us to the other side without incident and we paid our two bits. We snagged some banana's from a small shop, and waited for the bus to take us back to the hostel. It was at that moment that the whole credit card debacle came rushing back. My stomach was in knots the entire ride bus ride. Back at the hostel, I didn't even want to get my things. The anxiety was overwhelming. I held my breath as we
approached the shed, I'm sure Tom did, too. Ryan was ahead of everyone and went in first. When I reached the door he came walking out with my credit card tucked in his waistband. Apparently after I handed my card to Tom he absentmindedly set it down. FUN IS BACK ON! I took a moment to revel in an "I TOLD YOU SO!" moment with Tom before we gathered our things to leave.
Everyone was famished from hiking all day so we checked out a sushi restaurant across the street. Fortunately, their menu went beyond just sushi because I wasn't too keen on eating raw foods in a place that lacked windows and had stray dogs wandering in and out. After hearing that, one would think I'd have a problem eating there period. I guess I'm just a mystery. Along with meat options there were a few vegan options so everyone was happy. I ordered a mahi mahi burger while everyone else ordered the same veggie dish. We saw smoothies on the menu so inevitably they were ordered, and, in usual fashion, I had mine with milk. The restaurant only had one employee, the owner.
While he began our food Tom and I went for a jog to the nearest ATM which was about a half mile away. The only thing we could talk about on the run back was how delicious our food was going to be. It was then we realized the error of our ways. Everyone who stayed at the restaurant would be drinking our shakes. It wasn't a question of if they would, it was a matter of when they would and how much they would they take. It's just the way things are in this bunch, myself included. We shared a brief silence before our brisk pace became a mad dash. I then laughed because I realized mind wouldn't be touched, it was made with milk! That meant Tom's would be devoured in double the time. We arrived back at the restaurant huffing and puffing to find that our hurriedness was for naught. None of our order was even ready yet. The first of our crew was just receiving his. I took a seat at the counter, since every table had some sort of insect crawling on it, and watched as the lone employee slowly made each dish with care and a bit of pride. I admire his devotion, but, hey chief, less love more grub! I received my food long after everyone had finished theirs. I was too hungry to be mad though, and devoured it almost whole.
We took the local bus the mile back to Quepos where we were to connect with the bus back to San Jose. During the span of the day only two trips were available from San Jose to Quepos; once in the morning and once in the evening - and both trips were made by the same bus. We made sure to allot ourselves an ample amount of time to make it to the Quepos bus station. If we missed this bus we were royally screwed. The bus station was basically one huge loading dock. There didn't seem to be any rhyme or reason to the way the buses busily came in and out. Most of the time it was tumultuous gridlock. There was not a lot of room to begin with, but buses would pack into the small space like sardines usually blocking one another, or rolling over the median to the street. Sometimes they loaded and unloaded while not even fully in the parking lot. To add to the confusion, the majority of buses had no specific markings or indications of where they were coming from or going. There aren't many specific bus companies in Costa Rica. There are a lot of independent contractors. People will buy a bus and fix it just barely enough to not immediately kill people then start making runs to different towns. So imagine a never-ending parade of rundown buses, sometimes with hand-painted signs, going by. We watched each approaching bus with attentive patience, like the way a person acts when a nurse enters the waiting room to announce the next patient.
Everybody was exhausted. Our nonstop partying, and minimal amounts of sleep, was catching up with us. Tom and I needed make another trip to the ATM because our last withdrawal ended up only covering our meal and outstanding debts to Phil. The bus wasn't due to arrive for another 45 minutes so even though we were able to walk at our leisure there was still a paranoid feeling we would miss it. I think ATM's were probably introduced to Costa Rica about a week ago because every one we encountered had a line around the block that moved slower than molasses. I waited in the inexcusable line for a few minutes before getting too exasperated and anxious to stay. Quepos is a quintessential tourist trap. It's set up like a small town, but souvenir shops lined the streets. My camera was still not functioning properly so Tom and I swung by the small market directly across from the bus station for some batteries. The cashier and customers in line might as well have been snails in human form. How could people who drive so fast and recklessly move so unbelievably slow?? It was the epitome of irony. The checkout lines were directly in front of the market's, propped-open doors providing us with a clear view of our friends waiting on the station platform.
I made my purchase and returned to the platform bench where I began furiously cleaning the camera. The reason it was malfunctioning had to be from all the rain and moisture in the past few days. After a sufficient cleaning I loaded the new batteries. They yielded no new results. Desperate, and with Tom in tow, I ran back to the store for a bag of rice. Many of my previous phones have been introduced to the toilet, and storing them in a bag of rice for a day has always been a good friend. I impatiently stood in the sluggish line like a person that needed to use the bathroom. Tom played diplomat by running back and forth between both camps for updates. Seriously, the line moved that slow! Again I made my purchase and darted back to the platform. According to schedule our bus would be arriving any moment. Nina returned from exploring the shops with a beer in hand. I couldn't believe my eyes. Not long ago we all declared how we needed a break from partying. In disbelief, I asked her, "you're seriously drinking?," and she casually replied, "eh, I felt like a beer so I got one." I think Nina and I are going to get along just fine. I looked at everyone and said, "I guess we're doing this!" Nina was all the encouragement we needed. It doesn't take much! Our bus was now running 10 minutes late. There wasn't much time so Tom and I quickly went into action. We loaded our arms with beers then assumed our usual market positions. The gods must've taken pity on us because this time there was only one person ahead of me. I painlessly made it through the line only to be met by Derek at the door. "Guys, we missed the bus."
He said it so plainly that we thought he was kidding. "Hurry up, we're getting a taxi to chase it down." Again, not a hint of concern or worry in his voice. We ran with him back to the platform still thinking it was a joke. It wasn't until we saw the scared expressions on everyone's face as they blindly grabbed for their bags that we realized it was for real. As it turns out the bus was on time. It had pulled into the lot for literally a minute then continued on. Some sort of sign on the bus might've been nice!! This was very bad. There would be no more buses to San Jose until tomorrow morning. If that wasn't bad enough, we also had absolutely no way to contact Alle who would be picking us up from the bus station in a few hours. Currently we were about 20 minutes behind the bus. We scrambled for the line of taxis parked in the dirt lot behind the station, haphazardly throwing our bags at them. We didn't care where they landed just so long as they were loaded.
Due to our numbers we had to split up into two separate taxis further complicating the situation. Darkness had fallen and it began to pour rain as we peeled out of the parking lot in pursuit of the ghost bus. The chase was on. Joining us in our adventure was an American named Bo who was also left behind. We flew through the pouring rain, weaving in and out of traffic. Often times we'd use the oncoming lanes to pass long lines of cars. Headlights would barrel down on us. You couldn't have found a more intense chase scene outside of a movie. For added danger, the driver spent a lot of the time calling and texting his friend who possibly could get ahold of the bus driver. After narrowly passing a semi, we found the bus pulled over on the side of the road. VICTORY! Who would've thought that the reckless, erratic driving we initially feared might kill us would actually end up saving us. We slapped one another on the back and shook hands in congratulations. With adrenaline still pumping we unloaded the cab and boarded the bus. I defiantly thumbed my nose at Death, but little did I know there was still plenty of adventure left in the day.
The bus was fairly empty so we spread out. Still reeling with excitement we shared with one another our favorite parts of the chase while clinking celebratory road-sodas. BO sat near us and told us how he has traveled up and down Latin America working odd jobs. He's a tall, blonde haired, 20 something, surfer dude. There sure are a lot of those down here. The darkness helped make the perilous mountain roads a little more bearable. it's what you can't see, right? Although, I was still able to hear and smell the brakes. We pulled into the deserted, San Jose bus station around 9pm with the gates closing behind us like a prison. Alle wasn't going to be there until 10:30pm. We passed the time by playing cards and watching Transporter 3 in Spanish. I taught Derek and Tom how to play "Pass the Trash," and subsequently lost every game plus the remaining amount of money in my pocket. Since it's not really a 2 player game, they'd patronizingly give me 100 colones so I could continue playing which I would then lose back to them. This went on for about an hour until I dejectedly surrendered for the final time. It was 10:30pm, Transporter 3 was wrapping up, and there was no sign of Alle. No problem, except for the problem.
A worker told us the station closes at 11pm. At that point we would have to leave. Ok, no time to start panicking. Alle was probably just running late. We spent our time forlornly staring at the clock and apprehensively staring at the gates. Our ears perked up with each car that neared leaving us feeling like an excited dog awaiting the return of its owner. During this time more and more people began to gather outside the gates. Word probably spread that a bunch of gringos were about to be tossed out in the cold. It was feeding time. The clock struck 11pm. The station manager and his translator, a cab driver, solemnly approached us. I felt like we were on death row and they were coming to deliver the Last Rites. We were released to the wolves, unsure of our next move.
There was an eerie calm about the neighborhood with a faint fog looming under the streetlamps. The helpless feeling of being an outsider in a foreign land was overwhelming. Seeming to have genuine compassion for our cause, the cab driver refused to let us stand outside. He insisted on taking us somewhere away from the purported dangerous neighborhood. It's already been established that we didn't have Allejandro's phone number, which essentially is the greatest problem, but we realized we had yet another one; We had no idea Alle's address or how to get there. So we stalled. We dragged our feet in hopes that the next car on the horizon would be Alle's reassuring us everything would be OK.
There's a common theme in almost all of my tour journals. It is that at some point we're faced with, what seems like at the time, an insurmountable problem. And whenever we're on the verge of accepted defeat, through some Divine Intervention, 11th hour, Hail Mary pass we pull through and emerge victorious. In truth, I think this has spoiled and entitled us. We no longer face these problems with the fear that they command. We treat them lightly because we're so accustomed to being saved that, in our minds, there's no way we could lose. Maybe I'm reading too far into it, maybe this is a general feeling among many people not just my friends here, or maybe this only applies to me. It's probably just me. I stood with everyone facing a possible disaster, and not an ounce of me felt that we were in any potential danger. Call it stupidity or delusions of grandeur, but within myself I felt just fine. With increasing pressure from the sketchy cab drivers we were forced to make a quick decision. About the only option we had was to go to a hostel which none of us were too keen on doing. I threw my brain into overdrive for a possible solution and it hit me; Walmart.
I remember passing a Walmart on the way to the bus station. How many Walmart's could there possibly be in Costa Rica? My guess is one. I was also pretty sure it was on the main road next to Alle's house. I'd like to think I have a pretty good sense of direction so I shared my plan on retracing our steps. I believed I could do this. We negotiated fare with the cabbies, and settled on $15. We split into two cabs, well, a car and a truck. Derek insisted that he could help and joined me in the truck. Seriously? It was only a day ago that he led me on a wild goose chase in the pouring rain to find the beach! Had I not learned my lesson? Dare I put directional trust in him again?? I'm a glutton for punishment so I threw caution to the wind and accepted the challenge. What an unlikely pair! Me and the guy who got me lost the day before. I hoped that decision wouldn't become a classic case of "fool me once". I asked the driver to take us to the Walmart and he asked which one? Uh oh. There were TWO Walmarts, one on either end of town. The name Guadalupe sounded familiar so we chose that one and crossed our fingers. And they're off!
The first thing we passed was a hooker on the corner. She was pretty hot. I'll let you think about that statement for a moment... Finished? Derek and I analyzed every turn and sign. We made it a point to be very vocal, shouting out the things we remembered as we passed. But soon we started on a path that neither of us recognized. I began to get really nervous. This guy could be driving us anywhere. I mean, he already knew WE had no idea where we were going. For all we knew he was driving us to a spot where people would be waiting to rob or kill us. Much to my dismay we continued to travel further and further into unfamiliar territory. I began to plan an exit strategy when, BOOM, we were right in front of the Walmart. Resume the hunt! In an odd twist of fate, like how a Seinfeld episode comes full circle, the very signs I was annoyingly (read: hilariously) pronouncing in gringo Spanish were now leading us home. Derek and I were boisterously announcing the things we remembered, "remember that was the 24 hour food place that Alle said was too dangerous for us to walk??" My confidence was at an all time high, but just as fast as things became familiar, they just as fast became unfamiliar. I gave up and told the driver to pull over so we could inform the other car what was going on.
Derek wouldn't throw in the towel so easily, though. He was convinced he could get us there. I got out and walked to the other cab. Tom, whom also felt familiarity with the area, switched spots with me and joined Derek in the truck. I sat down in the front seat. The other cab driver was this toothless, Bilo, bowl of jello. I was feeling real low like I let everyone down. As we sat waiting for the truck to begin moving again, I took a look at the cabbie and he returned the look. It was almost as if we didn't know what to make of one another. After a split second, knowing that he didn't speak English, I said, "so how are YOU doing?" His face lit up and his whole body shook with laughter and he said, "hi!" then responded with something in Spanish. We didn't need to speak the same language, it was apparent what we both meant, "man, this is some night, huh??" The caravan once again took the street. Within minutes we were turning on Allejandro's street. He did it! Derek came through in the clutch and saved the day. I must say that's a pretty solid way to redeem yourself!
When we exited the cab and looked around, our, "YAY! WE'RE HERE!" soon turned into, "yay... we're here..." We removed our bags and went to settle up. Our cab ride went from $15 a piece to $30 a piece. We were dumbfounded, but had too many other things to worry about so we just paid the bill to get them out of there. Alle's house was covered in
barbed wire, and the only way to gain access was through the garage door. We peeked through a crack and didn't see his car. Some of his family lived on the first floor so we considered knocking on the garage door. Alle's neighborhood wasn't exactly safe, and we were 6 white people with a bunch of bags sitting on the curb. I call that a sitting duck. We were all exhausted and hungry. We had no food at Alle's, and the grocery store was only a block away so we split up.
Phil, Tom, and I cautiously walked to the store while everyone else stayed outside Alle's with the bags. We weren't there for more than 10 minutes when everyone else came walking in. Alle had finally shown up. Back at his place he seemed unimpressed with our tale of cunning and said, somewhat irritated, "you should've just stayed there." We told him that everyone kept saying it was in our best interest to get out of there, and he said, "of course they did. they wanted your money!" Apparently he arrived about 5 minutes after we had left. He said the station manager denied ever seeing us, yikes! He finally got the dirt after pressing the issue with one of the sketchy cab drivers. Thinking that we just went to a hostel, and probably relieved he wouldn't have to deal with us, he drove home to find his destitute, orphaned friends huddled outside his house. You can't lose us that easily, Alle!
I decided to crack a beer while I enjoyed my cold cuts, black bean paste, and Frank's Red Hot. We've yet to travel together where there hasn't been a bottle of Frank's Red Hot available, pursued, or pined over. I'm surprised they're not a sponsor of the band. Alle walked by and saw me with the beer. With a half smirk he pointed to a straight edge sticker on his fridge. I laughed it off, but he did not. He wasn't mean about it, but he did let me know that he doesn't usually allow alcohol in his house. I felt like such a heel. I pride myself on manners. Again, some of you readers might disagree, but I feel I am able to act appropriately when the situation dictates. I sincerely apologized, and felt very disappointed in myself. I should have known better. I guess earlier he wasn't joking either when he pointed to the vegan, "meat-free" sticker while I was loading a taco up with pork. Though, that was a rule I was willing to break! Everyone went to bed, and I stayed up writing. Alle was awake in his room, and I was still obsessing over my earlier rude behavior. He came out to use the bathroom, and I apologized once again. He let me know that it was OK. He said the reason for the rule was because of a bad experience he had with a previous band that stayed at his place. I guess one of them got a little out of control and woke his family. He said he wasn't too worried about me, though. I felt better.
In a few hours we would be headed to the bus station to travel to Monte Verde for a day of adventure and sightseeing. There were only two buses that made the trek; one at 6am, the other at 2pm. Alle had to be at work at 8am so the choice was an obvious one. We planned on waking at 4:45am to gather our things and do whatever else we needed to do. Without a doubt 5:15am rolled around and most of us were still in bed. There are different levels of the wake up call. A sample of them include: the gentle shake; hushed name call; sing-songy name call; stern, hushed name call; regular tone name call; stern, elevated tone name call; the yell; the yell shake; and the frantic yell shake. We were at Wake Up Call level: Kick. We ran wild through the house trying to gather our things. Outside a cab waited to drive us to the bus station. Alle would've taken us but San Jose has ordinances that prohibit specific cars from traveling inside the city on specific days. If your license plate ended in an even number, you couldn't enter the city on Wednesdays, and so on. We said goodbye to Allejandro and thanked him for all his generous hospitality. He was probably pretty
happy to get us out of his hair.
PARTY RAMPAGIN', MOUNTAIN ZIP LININ', AND THE CURSE OF THE
BATHROOM PEOPLE!
We arrived at the dilapidated station, and the ticket window for Monte Verde was still closed. Since we were not returning to San Jose we were carrying all of our possessions. We strategically chose an out-of-the-way spot to sit. We weren't planning on moving until we had to. We waited and waited, but there was no sign that the ticket window was opening. There were a few American-looking people hanging about. One girl must've noticed our confusion and ineptness, and came over to tell us that there would be no 6am bus to Monte Verde. Rain had washed out all of the roads. If the bad weather continued or worsened there might be a possibility the 6pm bus would be cancelled as well. Today was Wednesday, and marked the last day we would have to use questionable transportation. After today we would be using the Tica bus which is like a glorified Megabus. The plan was to stay in Monte Verde tonight; Managua, Nicaragua tomorrow; and reach San Salvador by Friday for an extra night of hanging out with people they knew. We needed to leave soon in order to be able to do anything in Monte Verde, otherwise there was no real point in going. We consulted the other gringos at the station for suggestions. The best one we received was to visit the travel guide located within the station. A very helpful man walked us through our options. He assisted us in laying out a more efficient travel route. We chose a place called Arenal which contains the most active volcano in Latin America. Our interest was peaked until he told us that it mysteriously became inactive 6 months prior. Still, it seemed better than the other options. He said to watch our possessions upon arrival because people would be falling over themselves to get our attention, and that sometimes it's to distract us while someone else picks our pocket. I was a bit saddened that we would no longer be going to Monte Verde since it came highly recommended by every person I know that's been to Costa Rica.
The next bus to Arenal wouldn't be arriving for a bit and I had to use the bathroom. Nearly every public restroom in Costa Rica comes complete with a person charging money out front. Some even have different prices for the poop or the pee. At the moment, I needed to finance the cheaper option. There are many advantages and disadvantages of being a white guy in Latin America. We have been referring to this as the Blessing and Curse of the Gringo, although I don't necessarily think this is exclusive to being a gringo. Maybe it's more accurate to say, the Blessing and Curse of the Foreigner in a New Land. But I think, as Americans, it's almost expected of us to be rude and obnoxious. Anyway, the Blessing is the ability to just smile and shrug at someone who has legitimate reason for asking you to do something that may be inconveniencing, i.e. to pay for goods or services. The Curse is sticking out like a sore thumb because your skin tone is a shade above Colgate white. You wouldn't believe all the wacky things people try to get you to do when you're white, like pay for things! Oh when will they learn! I hadn't exercised the blessing portion of the curse yet, and I was unsure if I would be able to follow through. I'm a pretty fair person. I pay my debts. I'd like to think I compensate people fairly for their help or use of their property. But when I'm a bit hungover and running on little to no sleep I can't be held responsible for what my brain instructs me to do. So when I exited the restroom, and the sweet, old man extended his hand to collect payment, I yelled, "NO!" I didn't deliver it snobishly dismissive or as if I was escaping from a building just as it exploded - although my hastened pace would have suggested otherwise -"NOOOOOOOOOOOO!" I delivered it disciplinary and poignantly as if HE did something wrong; like if I found a puppy crapping on the carpet. In my head I was creating a false scenario that I was convinced would translate culturally. I felt my "no" might lead him to believe that I mistakenly thought he was asking for a handout. To me this made perfect sense. He would stand bewildered for a moment thinking, "wait, but I'm not a homeless person, I'm just trying to collect bathroom dues;" While I made my getaway back to the waiting area (which lied unobstructed, less than 20 feet directly in front of him). In my rationale I was no longer the bad guy; just a victim of a confusing circumstance. I don't know why paying that dime led me to such an extreme, but when I don't sleep who knows why I do anything. Of course, later I stewed with guilt and regret.
We took our seats on the bus, and a man came around passing out small pamphlets. It basically detailed our trip and the natural caveats that came along with it, lost luggage, etc. It also included the time and town in which we would be taking our break. In my limited long distance, Central American bus riding experience, the bus usually stops once for a short period for food and bathroom breaks. Typically wherever they stop is filled with vendors selling food and goods. 20 minutes into our 4 hour journey I saw something that I forgot existed, the sun! You always take things for granted until you no longer have them. It was like the "Everbody Rejoice" scene from the Wiz. We shed our skin and if there was room we probably would've broken out into song and a choreographed dance. We were beginning a whole new tour. The air was fresher, food tasted better. The terrain was gorgeous, and the newfound light source accentuated its beauty.
I immediately fumbled to dig my camera from its rice cocoon. I feared that if I wasted one second I might not ever get another chance to use it. Magically, it returned to working order. I wound the neck strap around my wrist and leaned out the window. I
photographed like it was my
last day on Earth, and these would be the only physical
memories accompanying me on my upcoming journey into the unknown. The remnants of a life once known. I was like a dog taking a car ride, my head probably spent more time outside of the bus than it did in. Along the way we made a few stops to pick up passengers. One particular stop we picked up a young, possibly American, couple. The guy was wearing a Look Back and Laugh shirt. I don't know what it is, but even in my old age I get excited when I see punk shirts in unlikely places. In certain situations I can be pretty shy and reserved, but slap a punk shirt on someone and I find them to be the most approachable person in the world. They took a seat towards the front of the bus while we sat in the back.
Our elevation provided us with some serene, awe-inspiring
views that extended for miles. We climbed the never-ending mountains with dogged perseverance as the distance between us and sea level grew. With each
turn I didn't think we could get any higher, but this road was headed to the clouds, literally. Small towns
littered the mountainside even at
cloud level. With the warmth of the sun on my face and the faint, dull roar of the bus' engine in the background, I was soon lulled to sleep against my will. I probably only slept an hour before I woke feeling some discomfort. I needed to make the pee pee water, BADLY! How could this be? I had followed every parent's instruction and gone before we left. My thoughts quickly turned to the old man at the bus station. If this was a movie, the camera would be focusing on my befuddled, worried face as the old man's translucent head appeared maniacally laughing above me. Yep, what we have here is a classic case of old man curse! He must have flipped my gringo switch from blessing to curse while I was trying to keep my back to him.
I tried to will myself back to sleep, but my bladder had other plans. I took some deep breaths and tried meditative focus to convince myself that, in fact, I don't have to pee; mind over matter, right? When that didn't work I applied some logic that I hoped my bladder could understand. "Ok, we are on a 4 hour bus trip (you have to pee) with one rest stop (water pressure) smack in the middle (piss) of the (waterfalls) trip. We left at (tinkle) 9am, judging from (faucet dripping) the sun's position (burst pipe) it has to now be around 11am(dam breaking). I was falling apart. The old bastard was intent on doing me in! Or just make me pee my pants on a public bus. I bit my lower lip and pinched myself hard to divert my attention. I needed to find out the time. Everyone was either napping or lazily basking in the endless paradise that was scrolling past the window. "hey, HEY! What time is it??" "11am." "do you know what time we're stopping?" "not a clue, man." Ok, it's 11am, we have to be stopping some time soon, we just HAVE to be. I can do this. I patted my pockets in search of the pamphlet that had the name of our rest stop town. I couldn't find it anywhere. "hey, HEY! Do you still have that piece of paper they gave us when we boarded?" "yeah?" "GIVE IT TO ME!" I snatched it and my eyes fixed on the name of the town, Quesada. Sweat gathered on my brow as I white-knuckled the arm rests of my seat.
I stuck my head out the window and scanned for street signs. I spotted one on the horizon. I prayed that Quesada would be on there followed by 1km. No such luck. My bladder screamed and I began to to breathe hysterically like a person in shock. This was it, I was going to pee my pants. I secured a water bottle for the final showdown. "Calm down! Calm down!," my brain said as it delivered the mental slap I needed to regain my composure, "you can DO this, MAN!" "you're right. I CAN do this. DAMN YOU! DAMN YOU, OLD MAN! I'M NOT GOING OUT WITHOUT A FIGHT!" I put both hands securely on my crotch and squeezed the life out of it while occasionally sticking my head out the window nervously scanning for more road signs. During this time the bus was still picking up new passengers, and the seat next to me was still available. Parents led their children to the open seat, but continued on after meeting the distraught gaze of a visibly frightened man, breathing heavily and rhythmically squeezing the crotch of his pants like a nurse taking blood pressure. If this was the Fly I'd be tapping the barrel of that shotgun to my forehead. Few are ever able to say that they have overstepped the threshold of human dignity, but I can proudly say that I have. I regressed back to animal instincts. I tried to speak, but what came out of my mouth was nonsensical. I could only worriedly grunt as my mannerisms became twitchy and uncontrollable. Out the window, I wildly oscillated my head searching for any sign that Quesada was nearing. I held my breath and fought back the panic-stricken tears in between periods of frenzied breathing. "I-I-I'm not going to make it. I'M NOT GOING TO MAKE IT!," my body reluctantly accepted. Public opinion be damned! I prepared to deliver a battle cry and unsheathe in front of my friends; strangers; God; and that's when I saw it. Quesada 8km. The world darkened as the sign emitted a gentle, alleviating glow. A calm came over me, and my spirit left my body. We waved at one another, and he nodded, "I'll see you at the finish line, big guy." A line of drool hung from my lip, and I went into a trance. It could've been 5 minutes or 5 days, but when I came to I was standing at the urinal. My body heaved with every breath I took from the sheer physical exertion. My vision was blurry as I struggled to identify the person approaching me, "D-Derek? is that you?" "Hey, I paid the bathroom lady for you because you pretty much ran past her." "There was a bathroom lady?"
I nervously smiled at the woman as I left the bathroom. I looked upon her with feared reverence as I've now fully come to realize the power of the bathroom people. I made my way back to the bus expecting to see a hole in the side from where I emerged, and the headless children I open-palmed out of my way. What I found though was an extremely long line of people waiting to board. So far the bus ride has been pretty spacious allowing for all of us to have our own seat. It was a luxury we wouldn't be enjoying much longer. I made my way back to my seat, and saw Look Back and Laugh. I complimented his shirt and kept walking. He smiled without responding so I still didn't know if he spoke English or not. He did look familiar though. I took my seat and laughed as, one-by-one, every member of our group complimented his shirt while passing. I'm sure we made him instantly regret his wardrobe decision. We prepared for the onslaught of people by buddying up. Tom came with me, Ryan went with Phil, but Derek and Nina stayed put. Wrong move, dudes. Instead, they put their bags in the adjacent seat hoping to deter any potential suitors. As the bus began to fill, Ryan warned Derek of his mistake, but Derek stood firmly by his decision. So Ryan ended his lecture with an indifferent, "OK, well I guess you'll find out..." Tom and I fiendishly took pleasure in their conflict, anticipating the impending doom. And here came that doom.
A large woman carrying a baby shuffled down the aisle. She was the final passenger to board the bus. We all watched her with mouths agape. Our heads followed her as she slowly passed. We knew what was going to happen next. Nina, whom we now all playfully refer to as Nina Las Vegas, had since succumbed to her fate and accepted her new travel partner. The only two seats left on the bus were Derek's and the one Derekly ;-) behind him. The woman came to a screeching halt in front of his seat. Ryan's open mouth steadily turned into an open grin. Derek intentionally ignored the woman, but she showed no signs of budging. She also showed no signs of being able to speak English which severely hurt Derek's chances of pleading his case. After a moment he finally acknowledged her and tried to tell her that he couldn't move his bag. He motioned to the open seat behind him, but the women blankly and emotionlessly stared at him. Again, he tried to explain, but midway through realized it was going nowhere and threw up his hands in defeat. In anger, he aggressively threw his bag, accidentally hitting the guy behind him, in the only other open seat to clear her the space. Ryan was literally crying he was laughing so hard, which in turn made me and Tom start to laugh. Steam was coming from Derek's ears, and he stared out the window to keep from killing Ryan. Immediately everyone began plotting on how to birdman him. This could be the final blow. If you are unwilling to lie down when birdman'd you automatically lose. The woman took up a large portion of real estate, and the look on her face made it clear she wasn't moving anytime soon. If Derek was to survive he'd have to stare out the window for the remainder of the ride. Sensing this, Tom had me hold his legs while he climbed out the window attempting to birdman Derek who was two rows behind us. Derek wisely looked on. He later admitted that had he been caught he probably would've lost the game. Also later, after sufficient torture - mainly from Ryan - he set the record straight that he didn't mind sharing a seat, but his bag was so large that it wouldn't fit in the overhead or on the floor in front of him.
The temperature steadily rose as we made our way to
Arenal. Upon arriving the station was exactly how the travel guide described, it was like a bidding auction. People were lined up along the unloading area vying for our attention. It was a constant barrage of "HEY, AMIGO!"'s. "Where are you from, amigo?," is the icebreaker of the salesman. I don't think I've ever said, "St. Louis, Missouri," or, "it's about 4 hours South of Chicago," more times than I did on this trip. It seemed like everyone was hustling extra hard, probably on account of the horrible weather keeping tourists at bay. Sweat stains started to form on our shirts as we gathered our things. The humidity was killing us. Our hostel was about a half mile through the heart of town. I was tired and, aside from the
ominous volcano towering over us, the town looked like a tourist trap for whitey. The punk couple was a bit ahead of us seemingly traveling in the same direction. We watched as they entered our hostel.
By the time we reached the check-in counter they were unloading their bags in their room. This would be the
second hostel I've ever stayed in. The first pretty much lived up to what I anticipated a hostel to be; dormitory style, adequate accommodations, and very communal. What we entered was some sort of
5 star resort. The electronically locked gate opened to a luscious, green lawn. A short stone path led to an open air, tiki style hut with a wavy, clay tiled roof. The hut provided shelter to a social commons area that included the front desk and a cafe counter. Bar style tables dotted the shellacked, stone pieced floor. On the backside of the registration counter was a lavish pool lined with privacy trees and complete with a
swim-up bar. The facade of the multileveled building looked like a nicer version of any motel in a tourist destination near a large body of water. While we registered, I just knew we were going to get put in their room; and sure enough we did. Though, by the time we were finished registering they had already hit the town.
We unpacked our bags and an ungodly stench filled the room. The blame was passed back and forth until we all settled on Ryan's shoes. He put his shoes outside the door and flowers began wilting. But that only partially solved the mystery stench. We realized it was ALL of us. The past couple days has seen us rushing so much that none of our rainy clothes had time to properly dry. We needed to laundry and stat! We piled our despicables into a bag which the responsible half took the laundromat while the other half ran for the pool. The laundromat was basically some woman's house. Derek and I poked our heads into various business around the area while waiting for the woman to finish our clothes. We returned to the hostel to find Look Back and Laugh and his female companion sorting through their things.
Everyone was scattered about the hostel grounds, and I got deja-vu as I watched them individually return and introduce themselves. I small talked and joked with Look Back and Laugh about our repetitive shirt compliments on the bus earlier. Their names were
Evan and Carolyn, and they came from Pittsburgh on their honeymoon. Before I could ask if they knew any of my Pittsburgh friends, Evan said, "you're Rob Ruz." I was dumbfounded, and, I'm not going to lie, definitely had a moment of blushing self-importance. All of that came crashing down when I realized I had actually met him a couple times before and just forgot. My pride turned to shame. Evan was in a band called Flak whom played St. Louis, and Cardiac Arrest had played with in Pittsburgh. I felt like an ass, but I guess that's why he looked familiar on the bus. Either way, 'tis a small world after all. We apologized for our stink, and made jokes about how great it was that we'd all be sharing their "big night" together. They were really friendly and had a great sense of humor; the perfect couple.
With nothing to do I explored the hostel area. On the far corner of the the grounds were private, cabin style tents furnished with queen sized beds. My thoughts turned to Evan and Carolyn. This would be a great wedding present from us; to not have to spend one of their honeymoon nights with a bunch of stinking butts. I pitched my idea to Tom who was fully on board. The upgrade would only be about $3. I discussed the idea with the rest of them, and no one seemed to have a problem with it except Nina. She felt that they paid for what they wanted, if they wanted to stay in the tent they would've. I tried to explain that maybe they didn't want to spend the extra money, but would gladly accept it if someone gave it to them as a gift. I don't think she was grasping that concept. I felt like the idea might be lost in translation, maybe there are no such things as gifts in Croatia. Her other concern, which instantly became a concern of mine as well, was that they might feel like we're trying to get rid of them. We argued our disparate views until everyone but Tom became indifferent to the idea. I was disheartened and second guessing the entire thing until Tom pulled me aside and reassured me it was a great idea. Thanks, Tom.
We were standing at the counter, mid-upgrade, when the happy couple came through the gate. We nervously tried to rush the man through the clandestine process, but it didn't matter because they walked on none the wiser. We finished and ran to the room anxious to see if this was going to blow up in our faces. We broke the news and they were into it. I fidgety explained that we didn't want them to feel like we were kicking them out, and that if they didn't want to sleep there 2 of us would go in their place. It was unnecessary though because they liked the idea. Thank Jeebus, because we couldn't wait to get rid of them! :-) I laugh in retrospect because we actually kind of downgraded them. They went from an air conditioned room and semi-private bathroom to sleeping in a tent with communal bathrooms. HAPPY HONEYMOON! Later Nina told me that she initially thought it was a bad idea, but was wrong when she saw the final result. Thanks, Nina.
The original plan was just to stay one night. But after experiencing the sun for the first time and seeing the endless list of things we could do, there was no way we
couldn't spend another night. Our current, inane bus schedule required us to travel ALL THE WAY BACK to San Jose so we could then turn around and take another bus all the way back and beyond. This would bring our total travel time to about, oh, 23 hours or so. Derek brewed a pot of coffee, put on his internet'ing hat, and set off for the computer room to work some magic. He found a bus that would take us to Managua where we could meet up with the original bus. Sweet, now we could enjoy a relaxing evening without having to worry about rushing around. Tom, Phil, Nina, and I set off to find a nice place to eat. The majority of the restaurants were fairly open-aired, and had copies of their menu posted out front. We exhaustively searched for a restaurant we could all agree on, walking up and down almost every road in town. We settled on a
cozy spot called Nene's Cafe.
I had no plans to drink tonight. It was all about having a relaxing evening to recuperate. That changed when Nina ordered a beer at dinner. Like before, Nina sparked the fire within Tom and I. It's weird because Nina doesn't really strike me as the hard drinking, party animal type. Whenever the rest of us feel like we've had enough she appears, and in her Croatian accent says, "I think I want a beer." Everyone else deeply sighs, looks at one another, and says, "welp, I guess we're doing this again." Secretly, though, we all want to give her a big hug and say, "hell yeah, Nina, let's party!" Nina's beer announcements have definitely been responsible for many a good night, and this night would be no exception. We swung by the grocery store to buy more booze and snacks, then happily made our way back to the hostel just in time for their happy hour. We discovered we had a new roommate. He was an Englishman named Jon. He was very personable, and could make a sarcastic quip with the best of us. He was going to fit in just fine. For the duration of our stay he became the unofficial 7th member of the gang. He struck some of us as gay, and to quote Seinfeld, not that there's anything wrong with that! We couldn't pinpoint it so we just chalked it up to being British.
Night had fallen by the time we all reconvened for happy hour. Our time was split between sipping drinks under the hut and
lounging poolside.
The pool's peaceful glow made it look like the car from Repo Man had sunken to the bottom. While lights lined the room doors, the grounds were sparsely lit. Besides the pool, the festive lighting under the hut provided some illumination. Bats danced overhead occasionally dive bombing towards the reflective surface of the pool while we enjoyed our drinks. Evan and Carolyn joined us for a bit before retiring to their love cabana. Eventually everyone trickled back to the room for some much needed rest. I was reaching my second wind, but everyone had hit the hay. I had been getting behind on my writing so I knew I should use this opportunity of solitude to belt out some entries before my memory faded.
I made my way to the
poolside hammock and found a sleeping Ryan. Drat, that was the good one. The only other hammock was on the open lawn spotlighted by a streetlight. It would have to do. I climbed in, got comfortable, and got a sluggish swing going. I began to write when a group of drunk assholes decided it would be a good time to start playing a "hilarious" card game. This game involved making a "p'caw!" noise at the top of your lungs whenever you played ANY card. Did I mention it was about 1 am and the entire hostel had gone to bed? To make matters worse it was a group of surfer frat bros and German/Australian sorosluts. It might have been bearable if they were just playing the game, but, in between "P'CAW!"'s, I had to listen to the downright, embarrassing attempts to get these girls in bed. *frat surfer accent* "I was like, going to be a psych major, but, like, I realized I could, like, make more money at my dad's business. Oh, what, babe? you're turning in? NAH! Just have another shot!" *woo girl accent* "WOOOOO!" *glug glug* "P'CAW!!" It was so blatantly obvious and painful. They were so loud, I couldn't focus. I was grinding my teeth. Every "P'CAW!" brought me one step closer to yelling, "JUST ASK THEM TO HAVE SEX WITH YOU, IT'LL SAVE EVERYONE TIME!!" As I was on the brink of eruption they decided to go to a bar, phew! Now it was time to crack down... So I woke up in the hammock freezing having not written anything. I groggily walked back to the room and fell back asleep.
I slept all morning, well, as much as a person with 6 other noisy roommates could. The latch on our door made it impossible to open and close it without waking the dead. I was able to ignore most noise, but when a Euro girl decided to have a loud phone conversation directly outside of our gigantic, open bay window that was the final straw. Time to start my day. Nina was on all fours scrubbing the floor when I opened my eyes. She had a big smile on her face and said hello. I asked what was going on and she told me that when Tom climbed into bed last night he ruptured a container of orange juice he had been saving. It leaked all over the mattress before dripping onto Nina's bed and things. Apparently it smelled putrid, but luckily my sense of smell was momentarily on the fritz. Whatever horrible stench remained had been overpowered by Nina's cleaning solution. I commented on her sunny disposition because if I woke up to that I'd be wringing Tom's neck right about now. Bugs had already begun to gather on the sticky, smelly mattress so I made my way to the hut.
Everyone was hanging out and looking through the brochures at the various things we could do today. We all deliberated and settled on a horseback ride to a mountain zip line. Ryan and I were deathly scared, yet extremely excited to zip line. It's weird, when I was younger you couldn't pay me to zip line down a mountain. I actually took less chances than I do now. It's like my life is working in reverse. The night before, Ryan convinced us that we should all get really drunk before going horseback riding. Of course it was suggested by someone who doesn't drink. It was a really good idea the night before (while we were drunk), but not so much the morning after. Because of some miscommunication with the front desk guy, we found out the rad zip line package we chose was actually $50 not $35. A few people were starting to tighten their belts due to spending sprees over the last few days, but the rest of us were dead set on that specific zip line package. We haggled with the zip line people hoping for a discount. Our negotiation skills netted us a $1 discount! We nixed the horses in attempt to save money, but found out they only accounted for $3 of the $50, wow. In that case we might as well do it. We made our reservation for 1pm. Around 11:45 the sky turned black and a torrential downpour began. Everyone was crushed. We sat under the hut with fingers crossed as we watched the weather channel. Around 12:45 it magically stopped and the sun came back out. GAME ON! Our van arrived and whisked Tom, Phil, Ryan, and I away to our awaiting adventure. Derek and Nina opted to rent bikes and go on a hike with Jon tagging along.
At the base of the mountain we signed a waiver giving up our right to sue the pants off them in case one of us should die. After a brief, and I mean BRIEF, safety instruction we loaded into a tractor pulled
wagon and made our way to the lines. we
climbed and climbed until we got to
what we thought was the beginning. We were already about a 1000 ft above the ground. It turns out we were still towards the bottom of the starting point. I looked over the edge of the railing and my heart was pounding. We were given a short talk, and our guide
suited us up. I told him to tighten mine to the point where I would no longer be able to breathe. I was completely OK with my unconscious body being pushed from line to line. Everyone laughed, but I was completely serious. Securely strapped and carrying our harnesses, we followed our guide up the hiking trail like
lemmings. Since I was convinced I would die, this truly was a death march. We were the only people on the tour which made it better because I was sure they would have to forcibly push me off each platform while I hysterically wept.
There were 11 lines in all each with it's own distinct trait; the longest, the highest, the fastest, etc. The first two lines would be the novice,
practice lines. Standing on the platform we were given another short presentation on proper technique. We were to keep our
legs crossed and lean back. One hand was outfitted with a thick leather glove not unlike a Muay Thai glove. This was to be our brake, and rudder. We were supposed to keep this hand on the line at all times, otherwise our bodies would just spin uncontrollably. The other hand was to remain on the strap that connected us to our pulley.
We had two guides with us on the tour. The first guide was a funny, young, college student type. He would zip to the destination platform in order to assist the incoming zip liners. His other job was to signal us when we should begin to apply the brake, i.e. squeeze the line. If we did this too soon then we might come to a screeching halt in the middle of the zip line. That means we would have to manually pull ourselves to the opposite platform. The idea of having to scurry hand over hand while suspended hundreds of feet above the jungle did not much appeal to me; I would be paying attention. The second guide was an older man who barely spoke English. He would stay on our end, connecting us to the line and seeing us off. With a bit of nervous anticipation we all lined up awaiting our turn. The shipping and receiving jobs of our guides required impeccable timing. To ensure that things ran smoothly and quickly, while one person was en route the other was either being attached or taken down. I didn't want to go first, and I didn't want to go last so I took a comfortable third. Phil bravely led the pack. A distinct high pitched, whining buzz produced by the pulley accompanies each trip. The sound is kind of like a cross between a remote control airplane and a bomb being dropped. It acts as a sort of warning for the impending collision. You definitely know when someone is on their way.
Ryan was sent, and before the whine even ended I was connected and ready to move. Besides knowing the only thing that separates you from a free-fall death is one small, canvas strap, it wasn't so bad. My face displayed intense concentration as I focused on watching guide #1. I became increasingly more scared when I didn't see a signal to stop. "He's looking right at me. Why hasn't he raised his arm yet???? I must be traveling at about 90 mph right now! Maybe the signal is subtle and I didn't see it!" At what seemed to me like the very last second, he finally raised his arm to signal braking. There was only one problem. I wasn't stopping. We all wonder what we would do when faced with certain death. I pretty much just repeat the words, "oh shit," over and over. They may as well have dropped me from an airplane with nothing but a cocktail umbrella.
I braced myself as I careened towards, essentially, a brick wall. I was squeezing the line with all of my might and thinking, "Welp, I had a good run. I guess I'll be hitting that dusty trail into the sunset." Within 5 feet of the large tree at the end of the line I came to an abrupt stop. Besides not properly conveying the experience of stopping yourself with your hand while moving at 30 -40 mph, he also failed to tell us that in case of emergency
he has a rope that serves as sort of a net. So as I was making my peace and puckering up to smooch the tree it all stopped in the blink of an eye. The good news though is that since you're brought to an immediate stop the inertia causes everything that accumulated in your pants to continue forward giving new meaning to the term "forward inertia load factor." Being the heaviest of our group proved to be the most interesting. I'd like to think our guide earned his pay that day. Phil had a good laugh at my expense because the same thing happened to him not one minute earlier. We jokingly compared our rides while we waited for Tom. Before he reached our platform, we happily watched as he went through the same horror we did. From my new vantage point it was clear that applying the brake worked, but when you're on the wire you feel like a runaway train headed for a "Bridge Out" sign. This was just one of the ways our guide messed with us. He truly was one of us.
Oddly, as we systematically
made our way through the lines, I became MORE nervous with each one I conquered. I use the word conquer because one half of my face was splattered with dirt and rust from the wet wires. I was like the William Wallace of zip lines. Warriors don't just prevail, warriors decimate and
CONQUER! Although, at that moment, I wasn't feeling very warrior-esque. The opening scene of Cliffhanger replayed in my head with every new line.
I was getting paranoid, and constantly telling the guide that I thought my straps were getting looser. He'd just look at me and say, "oh, you're fine." The experience started to become mechanical and repetitive at one point. We'd hike to the wire, line up, raise our hands, get hooked, and be sent on our merry way. The droning hum of the wire seemed to constantly be in the background. I was really bad about raising my hands and letting No-English work. For some reason when someone is fiddling with something of mine directly in front of my face I can't help but try to join in. I could tell he was getting annoyed so I tried my best to keep my hands away from his job at hand; a job that was basically just making sure I didn't DIE! I'm smart sometimes.
We switched our order a couple of times to make things interesting. Even the guides switched once with No-English unhooking us on the opposite platform. Sure enough on that run No-English and I hit a snag. But this time it was more imperative because someone was headed our way! Like I said earlier, the "de-attacher" has to work fast and efficiently to avoid potential disaster. On this particular platform the wire was higher than usual, or the step we used to get off was lower. Either way, I buzzed in and my strap was so taut that he couldn't get it off. I could hear the buzz getting closer so I started to panic. He sensed this and tried to hurry, but I was no help. I began trying to fidget with it only complicating things, and he gave me a look that said, "knock it off." The buzz was getting louder. I don't know what I was thinking, but I tried unsuccessfully jumping up and down to loosen the tension. That's when I realized I could just pull the wire down with my hands, duh. He quickly unhooked me then got into position to net the next guy. To me this was a close call, but to him it was just an everyday occurrence.
Young guide started hot-dogging on the lines. He'd zip down upside down or backwards, he even went
tandem with Ryan. In between lines we'd pelt him with questions, silly or not. That's one thing I love about being with these guys, they are forever curious. They ask whatever questions pop into their head regardless of appropriateness. It's awesome. When I am with them I find myself doing the same. It's a great way to put someone at ease. We asked him what the craziest thing he's ever seen or done while zip lining. He tried to remain reserved at first, giving us somewhat tame answers, but we continued the barrage of questions and suggestions until he opened up. He told us how he dreads the fat Americans who try to zipline. Once a woman got stuck on the longest wire and refused to move, so he had to crawl out there and get her. Things he's done on a zipline include: "made out" with a girl, sent an armadillo down solo, and went without a harness; yes, he zip lined hundreds of feet above the forest floor with nothing but his strength keeping him up, total badass.
After a couple of hours of soaring over
waterfalls; horses; and leafy,
mountainous terrain, we finally reached the end.(note: those vids are the zip lines we used, not of us obviously) Our guide told us we did really well for
first timers, and that most people get stuck on the wire at least once. We felt proud. Now it was time for
HORSES! But first we opted to watch a
short presentation from some of the native people. It was held under a real hut complete with straw roof. To gain entry we had to greet the native woman in the same manner she greeted us; putting your right hand on her shoulder and saying, "Capi Capi." The walls were
lined with colorful, homemade wooden masks and knick knacks made by the natives. We sat on benches in the middle of the room in front of a fire. During her speech we would echo "Capi Capi" whenever she would say it. I'm not sure if we were supposed to do that, but it just felt right. It reminded me of the Alamo scene in Pee Wee's Big Adventure, "buenos dias." Our guide interpreted her words, and explained each item that was passed around, it was mostly
masks. Phil and I bought some
souvenirs before heading to our horses.
I've only rode a horse one other time in 8th grade. All I could think about was the time when my friend Ben had to jump off a bucking horse. I got a little nervous. I know horses are strong and resilient, but I'm never too keen on making another living thing carry me on its back. This isn't necessarily a comment on animal rights as it is a comment on my mass. I apologized to my horse for what I was about to do to him, and climbed aboard. If they chose our horses based on personality, mine was a perfect match. It
pooped a lot, and would
headbutt or
bite anyone that crowded him. At one point he even ripped the reins right out of Phil's hands just because he wanted to. I gave him a congratulatory pat for that one. I have to say, I think I'm fairly adept on the back of a horse. Our guide brought up the rear of the pack. He took this opportunity to mess with us more by whistling various commands to speed the horses up. We mostly alternated between a
trot and
gallop down the path. Phil,
the equestrian of the bunch, attempted to travel as fast as possible, or at least as fast as his horse would allow. He led our pack most of the time. He told us later that he thought the horses were pretty crappy. He said that his misbehaved and didn't listen; and that it was the type of horse Walmart would sell if they sold horses.
We returned our horses to the barn, and went to check out the butterfly and
frog gardens. They were pretty underwhelming. Just beyond the small, screened frog garden was a
path that ran along a
small creek. We followed it
unsure of where it led. We were also uncertain of whether it was going to start pouring or not. After many jokes and dares to stick our hands in places they shouldn't be stuck (holes in trees, not butts), we eventually found the end of the path which just emptied us further up the road we had just traveled. The van was running and waiting when we got back to the front of the park.
We reached our hostel as the remaining sunlight faded. Tom, Phil, and I found a nice restaurant to have dinner. I hadn't planned on drinking. (yes, I know I sound like a broken record at this point, but I normally just drink water with my meals and that is obviously not an option here!) But, when that first Pilsen touches your lips, oh man! It's drunk town! It started raining cats and dogs while we were being seated in the restaurant. We made it just in time. Now let's hope that it lets up by the time we finish. At this point though, we had already been allowed an entire rain-free day of fun so I was fine with having to walk the 1/4 mile back to our hostel in it. It was a fair trade. Slowly, empty beer bottles began to outnumber the rest of the items on the table. This was an omen that we would be having another fun night. We ran through the rain to buy beer at the supermarket before heading back to the hostel. Luckily, we still had those handy dandy rain trash bag things from Manuel Antonio. We got our money's worth.
Everyone, including Jon, Evan, and Carolyn, was full swing into happy hour back at the hostel. Since it was our last night we decided to reach beyond the normal beer specials and explore the discounted alcohol specials. We loaded up on margaritas and various other fruity, frozen drinks; passing them around the table so that everyone could take a sample. I don't know how, but we got really loaded. Well, actually I know exactly how, we pounded drinks! We had a lot of fun just chatting or roaming around the small grounds. I even treated everyone to a drunken rendition of "Nina Las Vegas." The large, central window of our room was pretty much always wide open. We took to using it as our doorway whenever we forgot our keycard. I remember announcing to everyone that I would only be entering and exiting our room through the window ala the wacky neighbor on a sitcom. This consisted of me thrusting my head through the opening in the drapes and yelling, "HOOOOOLA!," before climbing through. I drunkenly encouraged everyone else to adopt this, as well. Happy hour ended and our beer supply soon followed. We all walked to a liquor store to restock. On our return, we passed a cozy, sidewalk restaurant that we had seen earlier. Most of us were getting our drunk, second eating wind so we stopped in. It was a funny place. It was trying so hard to be an American(US) restaurant. There even was a functional Big Mouth Billy Bass on the wall. The owner was really nice and accommodating. I think he was going the extra mile because the rain had been hurting his business. We grabbed some tacos and indigenous dishes, and hit the road.
The next morning was HELL. Our bus left around 6, and it was crucial for us to be on it. Missing that bus would mean missing our connection in Managua thus missing our show in San Salvador the next day. Missing this bus would have far dire consequences than if we had missed that bus a couple days prior in Quepos. We rose at the 5 o'clock hour. This wouldn't have been so bad if not for the fact that we had only gone to bed a few hours before; correction, passed out a few hours before. I must have originally fallen asleep by the pool because while we were preparing to leave, Nina found a bunch of my stuff next to it. I'm glad she found it because I was so hungover I could've left without my bag and not even have realized it. I don't usually get hangovers, but I was REALLY hungover that morning. I halfheartedly said goodbye to Jon, who was barely awake in his bed, then walked to meet the taxis. When I reached the hut I found more of my things. What the hell did I do last night?? This was pretty uncharacteristic of me. I must've had one too many roofie daiquiris.
Our bus stop was just the intersection of two roads. We thought it must be a mistake on the cab's part at first, but figured it must be the place when we saw other travelers waiting. We wearily sat, hungover and tired; Some just one, some both. We were hungry, but all of the surrounding businesses were closed. These surrounding businesses were basically small storefronts connected to the person's home. We struck up light conversation with some American girls we had seen at the hostel. They all seemed just as tired as we were. One in particular seemed to enjoy the dumb things that came out of our mouths. Her name was
Lisa, and she was from Washington DC. She noticed the ongoing Birdman game and expressed interest in playing. Seriously, she expressed interest in playing...
I don't even play this game, and anyone with half a brain stays far away from it as possible. I related this to her, but she insisted. The initiation of joining Birdman is just a simple handshake. She shook in and was Birdman'd almost immediately; Rookie. I have to hand it to her she took it like a champ and didn't complain whenever she had to hit the ground. The bus ride was long and laborious. I was hungover and uncomfortable. There's just never a good way to sleep on a bus.
HANGOVER HELL, MALL WALKIN', AND THE DECAPITATED CAB
There was some
beautiful scenery on the way to Nicaragua. We even saw a
funeral procession. Our bus began to slow, then came to a stop in the middle of the road. We were worried that it may have broken down since apparently that happens fairly often. As everyone on the bus looked around for an explanation, a horse drawn carriage appeared outside my window. In the carriage was a casket surrounded by people whom I would assume were family. Mourners followed behind on foot. It was kind of a surreal experience. I watched it all pass, yet it took me a moment to even realize it was a funeral. When it finally hit me, I stuck my camera out the window. I tried to be as candid as possible because I didn't think it was appropriate to flaunt that I was taking a picture of their sadness. When I surveyed the photo I couldn't help but laugh because when I zoomed in you could clearly see the teenage girl sitting next to the casket texting on her phone.
We reached the
Nicaraguan border. This was it, we are now entering Central America. I mean, we are now entering the Central America everyone pictures; poverty, famine, underdeveloped industrial nations. I was going to miss whitey's paradise, but I was interested in seeing the what the rest of Latin America had to offer. The Hell Morning theme continued once we left the bus. I was told that at the borders we would have to get on and off the bus a million or so times. As soon as the bus doors opened, a crowd of people blocked the exit, fighting for position. Some were even falling into the bus due to the pushy crowd. Their individual voices were barely distinguishable from the collective wall of noise as they vied for our attention. There were people selling homemade goods, beggars asking for handouts, but mostly it was people trying to get you to exchange your currency with them. I was warned to walk with my bag in front of me and keep an eye on my things at all times. I had to keep my wits about me because people would continually harass you for stuff, and it was unclear of whether they were trying to rob you or just sell you something. Sometimes it wasn't them you had to worry about, they might be distracting you while their friend robs you. It was like I was back living in Chicago up the block from the halfway house.
Do you know where the worst possible place is to have a hangover? The border of Costa Rica and Nicaragua. The air was heavy it was so humid. Our clothes were sticking to us, there was trash everywhere, and no fewer than a dozen people watched us at all times. The way this particular border was set up required for us to walk from ones side to the other. I'm not talking about walking 10ft from the Costa Rican border building across some symbolic line drawn in the dirt then into the Nicaraguan border building. I'm talking about exiting Costa Rica and then being told, "hey, do you see that building down the road?" "oh that big one right there?" "No, look further, beyond that. Do you see that little dot down there in the distance? Yeah, that's it." At the Costa Rican side a few of us had to poop. Besides being a horrible place for a hangover, it's also a horrible place to have to poop. We dumped, pun intended, our belongings in a corner near a uniformed man, and got in line to pay the country exit fee. After each one of us paid, we returned to our things and waited for the rest of the group. Those standing around plotted their poop.
Directly behind us was a door with a small placard that read "bano." Under the placard was a taped piece of paper with Spanish written all over it. It didn't take a unilingual genius to figure out that the paper stated that only a specific group of people were allowed to use this bathroom, and we weren't them. It was time to exercise a little thing called the Gringo Blessing. Unfortunately Ryan exercised his Gringo Blessing before I had a chance. In this particular scenario the Gringo Blessing could only be used one time. The locals were onto us. Ryan returned refreshed, and spoke highly of the bathroom and his experience. After I expressed some reservations about trying to use it he urged me to try anyway. "When someone tries to speak to you just ignore them and act like you don't understand." Well that wouldn't be too far from the truth anyway. I got the nerve and slowly walked towards the bathroom. I made the mistake of maintaining eye contact with the people I was attempting to ignore. I must have looked like a child defiantly inching towards the cookie jar while a parent authoritatively tells him no with every movement. "noooooooo.... no! NO!" My attempts were foiled before I even touched the doorknob. And instead of trying to act innocent, I huffed and stomped away; like a child!
Phil pointed me to the nearest bathroom which was next door in a sort of convenience shop/restaurant type place. I walked in and checked the door, locked. So I stood and waited. and waited. and waited. I was becoming impatient when someone approached the door and entered. Confused, I pulled the door and again it was locked. Ok, now I looked like an idiot. Now, you ask? Shut up. I casually looked around like I was just checking out the place, and not reenacting a scene from the Three Stooges. This man was taking FOREVER! I impatiently tapped my fingers. The man exited, and the door closed. I waited a moment, looked both ways, and pulled the door handle. LOCKED! I could swear the women across the room were laughing, but when I turned they all looked away. I was one face swipe away from barking at the door and running in place ala Curly Howard. With nature not only calling, but faxing; texting; sending urgent emails; I opted for a different approach. No, I didn't get a log to use as a battering ram. I coolly approached the counter and asked for a key. I didn't do this before because I was afraid they would charge me a Quarter. The woman nodded when I asked to use the bathroom. I waited to get some sort of key, but she motioned for me to go to the bathroom door. I walked to the door and gestured that it was locked. That's when she pushed a button at the counter that unlocked the door. At this point I didn't even care. I ripped the bathroom open and ran in.
Just as the door swung close, a hand appeared blocking it. A man joined me in the restroom. Now this wasn't necessarily a single use restroom, but seriously, you couldn't just wait for me to come out? There was one stall and one urinal. Since I was first man in, I got pick of the litter. Besides, would he have brazenly entered the bathroom if he had to take a dump? What if I had to take a dump?? (I did.) The bathroom was the furnished equivalent of a hole dug into the dirt. Think the bathroom in CBGB's (NYC AND STL). Years of touring and traveling have alleviated the stress of crapping in public places and near others. I don't necessarily like to do it, but I can cope. I sat on my throne and listened to hear what that man in the small area outside the massive stall was up to. By George, he was waiting! Needless to say this made me a little gunshy. I couldn't believe the cajones on this guy! I had wasted enough time with this bathroom hoo-hah, but what was a few more minutes to shake this patient pendejo? I heard the door open and close. I did it, I won! I enjoyed the rest of my bathroom experience as much as the sweltering bathroom would allow and exited the stall. Well; not only did the man NOT leave, he added a 2nd member to his patient party- a little old man. All I could do was laugh, and I did as I walked back to the group who thought I was long dead.
Now began our trek to Nicaragua. There were a few shack-like houses on what we assumed was the literal border. This led to light debate, and funny scenarios about living on the exact border of two countries. It began to lightly sprinkle which wouldn't have been so bad had we been walking on paved streets. We were walking on a dirt road rife with potholes that still held evidence of the previous storm. Halfway down the road there was a roadblock with a small pavilion-like hut. For some reason it reminded me of a little league dugout. Two uniformed people sat at a table. There were people scattered on either side of the roadblock not really doing anything, but hanging out. This must be the exact border point. We again had to get our passport checked, but this time was swift and easy. One glance and we were on our way again. To get past the roadblock we were directed to enter a
short, chain-linked labyrinth. There were people hanging out on either side of the tight hallway making it annoying to move when you're carrying bulky items. Some tried to get your attention, some just stood there, but all watched us closely - as did everyone else until we got on our bus.
We got out of the short, straight, yet oddly still confusing, chain link non-maze (which I dubbed "the gauntlet"), and continued on into Nicaragua. The road got muddier, and the people got sketchier. 18 wheelers were parked indiscriminately about the road. We really had no idea where we were supposed to be going since there were absolutely no signs to direct us. I voiced my displeasure loudly and often, usually in the form of, "George is getting ANGRY!" Random people with laminates were standing around, trying to get our attention. We've trained ourselves to ignore people so well that it took a moment for it to even register that they were talking to us. One of the men made a stamping gesture with his hand. We didn't know whether to trust him, and we could tell he sensed this. He tried the best he could to explain himself, and motioned us to follow him. We didn't really have many other options at this point so we followed him. He led us around the building to what was presumed to be the passport check-in. A lot of people were just milling about. One man started asking us where and how we were traveling. We uninterestedly responded, our eyes really never wavering from the check-in. He tried to persuade us to take a different bus saying he could save us money. Some of us are more receptive to the idea of saving money than others even in the face of danger. I'm not trying to insinuate they're cheap, but I felt more comfortable paying the extra couple of dollars (usually literally) to get the safe, sure thing. We dropped our things towards the back of the room and got in line. Some of us needed to find an ATM because it cost $12 to enter the country. Phil, Tom, and I set off in search. We were so hyper-aware of our surroundings that we may very well have walked with our backs together the entire time.
We returned to the line, birdman'ing Lisa along the way, and found that no one in particular was watching the stuff. Random strangers crowded near our things, but everyone from our group was busy paying attention to other stuff. The next 20 mins in line was spent asking one another, "are you watching the stuff? who's watching the stuff? DUDE! Pay attention to the stuff." I was really surprised it was all still there after we went through the administrative process. We looked for our bus, but not before another person sitting behind a card table clamored for our attention. Apparently there is a $1 tourism tax. We were fairly skeptical, but they convinced us it was official. I'm hungover, hot, and annoyed; just take my dollar! This was my first introduction to the gringo tax/gringo special which is essentially just a bait and switch, or ignorance tax. I'm no dummy. I knew we were destined to be targeted by grifters for being white foreigners. I just had no idea to what extent, and to what extent I could refuse. I was beginning to feel like the nerds in that Simpson's episode where Snake, the criminal delinquent, tells them he's a wallet inspector, and they all happily hand over their wallets.
We were now wandering around the wasteland trying to find our bus. The area was set up like a mini Mad Max city. Buildings were separated by trash, dirty cars, long stretches of muddy roads, and sketchy people. The persuasive man returned and continued to insist we take the local bus for $3 as opposed to the Tica bus for $12. We told him we would consider it. The problem with acknowledging one of the many people trying to get your attention is that there is never an end. If they were trying to get you to buy their cheaper food, they would pop their head into your business every few minutes to see how the decision making was coming along. Even after you tell them you've settled on somewhere else, they'll still try to change your mind. It would be no surprise if they continued to hound you even after you've begun eating! This man was no different. If our group began walking, he began walking and keeping pace. He would disappear for a bit, but never fail to reappear. I didn't trust it, but it seemed everyone else did. They've been here before and know the ropes better, so we settled on the cheap bus. But when we needed him he was nowhere to be found. We didn't know where his bus was.
We scanned the area looking for anything to indicate where we should be going. It was like we were in some sort of exploratory RPG game. Across the muddy, main road was a wall of corrugated sheet metal - which seems to be what accounts for about 90% of the building materials in Latin America. Right in the middle was a small entry point guarded by an old man in uniform. There was a small line of people waiting to get in so we joined them. Phil and I were towards the back of the line. The old, uniformed man asked to see passports. When those were produced, he asked for a $1 tourism tax. Without hesitation everyone in front of us started to get out their dollars. Simpson's nerds. They would've paid a second dollar if Phil hadn't spoke up and to say we already paid it. Our bus man was waiting for us on the other side and aggressively led us to the bus. As I was rushing to catch up with everyone, I could've sworn I saw the old, uniformed man slam his fist down in the air and say, "Damn, almost got 'em."
We cleared a path through the bustling marketplace to reach the bus that would be taking us to Managua... a big, yellow schoolbus. What we were about to experience was real deal Latin America, or as Phil put it, "This bus has flava." A man offered to take our bags, but we respectfully declined after we watched what he did with everyone else's bag; which was walk them out the rear exit of the bus. I didn't know where they were going, but I knew mine wouldn't be joining them. Phil and I crammed ourselves and our bags into one of the open seats. Phil warned me that the bus would be FILLED, and not just with people. We'd probably get an occasional chicken running around. I didn't know it at the time, but what were on is actually called a chicken bus (google it). Mr. bus man came around to collect our fare. He must've waited until there was no possible way we could move to spring the extra $2 on us. Our fare jumped from $3 to $5. It was enough to look skyward and shake your fists, yelling, "GRINGOOOOO TAAAAAAAAX!" I know you must be thinking, "so what, it's only an extra $2?" That's what I thought at first, but when you're constantly getting the gringo special that $2's seems like a million. Welp, can't get off now!
With a man on the roof stowing bags and lively music blaring from the speakers, we crawled through the marketplace towards the road. We were moving so slow that people were passing us on foot. After a brief stoppage we hit the road like we were racing to stop a wedding. There was no shortage of solidarity honks, or for that matter, honking period. The horn was honked if we passed a car, the horn was honked if saw someone walking, the horn was honked in time with the music, sometimes the horn was just honked at random; to put it bluntly the horn was honked a lot. I think he had just installed it the day before and was excited to try it out. We were on a local bus so there were a lot of stops to load and unload passengers. At every stop, before the bus had even begun to brake, the back door would swing open and the luggage man would announce the next stop as he climb onto the roof.
People packed the bus until there was no longer a place to stand or sit. Every time you thought the bus could not possibly handle another person, one more got on. Along with them came vendors. It was such a simple, yet brilliant, business strategy. The bus would make a stop every few miles or so. On those stops a person, usually a woman, would get on peddling her wares. 95% of the time (95%, heh) it was enticingly aromatic, homemade food. They would make a couple laps up and down the aisles pushing their goods, but never too overbearingly. I was amazed at their poise and balance since most of the food was usually in a basket on their head. They were able to gracefully walk up and down a crowded bus with people in the aisle as it tore down a poorly repaired road. Color me impressed! A large, jolly woman eating some of the snacks told us in broken English that the food one of the women was selling was the best in all of Nicaragua. I was dying to try it, but the thought of spending my last few days on the toilet didn't seem fun to me. We just smiled and chuckled as the large woman laughed with us.
It rained intermittently throughout the trip, and it was so uncomfortably hot in the bus that everyone had their windows down. When it started raining, a lot of people instinctively raised their windows. Because of the way the windows were situated, when it started raining, it didn't actually hit the person sitting next to the window; it hit the person behind the window. Thus, if you were an asshole, you didn't raise your window. The person sitting in front of me was an asshole. I was split though. The only thing I hated more than the rain was the heat. So when it started raining I would endure it for as long as my sanity would allow. It seemed every time I was about to explode, the rain would stop. This vicious cycle continued for a good portion of the ride. Towards the end I couldn't take it anymore and tapped the man in front of me on the shoulder gesturing to his window. I was wet no more.
We arrived in Managua in the early evening. The bus pulled into a very busy locale. Before we even exited the bus, Mr. bus man had already secured us a taxi. Now that's what I call service! He told us that this was no place to be hanging out. We needed to travel to the Tica bus station that doubled as a hostel. If we wouldn't have taken the chicken bus we'd already be at the station. We negotiated a fair price with the cabs and piled in. Managua looked pretty nice, albeit, my expectations were really low. It seemed suburban, yet with urban qualities. When we reached our destination suddenly our initial, fair fare jumped to $5 per person. "GRIIIIINGOOOO TAAAAAAAAX!" We soon came to realize that nice Mr. bus man was probably in league with Mr. taxi man. This was getting old pret-tay, pret-tay, pret-tay quick. Our bus would be leaving at 5am so it was really convenient that the station was also our hostel. We paid our fare and were approached by two teenagers. They told us they had a hostel up the street that would only charge us $6 a night as opposed to Tica bus' $12. You see, Central America is one big game show that you never win. Every time you feel like you are about to come out on top, someone wheels a big mystery box into the room and gives you the option to risk it all for it. Naturally, being a risk taker, you always choose the box. And naturally, the contents of the box are always the same; NOTHING! You so STOOOOPID! This time though, i was determined to win.
I didn't care what they did, I was staying at the station. I could wake up as late as I wanted, completely stress-free, before the bus left. Also, these kids looked SUPER sketchy, like leading-you-to-your-torturous-doom sketchy. We entered the station while Derek and others tossed around our new option. I was openly and firmly against it. This entire time, the sketch-teens stood in the, now, rain and peered at us through the window. I felt like they were holding us hostage, like we had to lie to protect them and every time we glanced over they would make the throat-slashing pantomime. Phil and Derek still entertained the idea even after a convincing argument was presented against it. When they returned ,we didn't need to know any more than the look on their face. "It's pretty much just somebody's house." Yep, nope, I'm good. The last thing I need is to be robbed forcibly or while I sleep.
We conveniently booked our travel and rooms then settled into the bus station hotel which was eerily reminiscent of the underground bunker in Day of the Dead. The night was ours for the taking since we had absolutely nowhere to be. The last time they were in Central America they checked out a mall in El Salvador that was selling shoes and whatnot for pennies on the dollar. The thought of cheaply replacing my beat up shoes was very appealing so our night out was planned; We were going to the mall! Like the other bus station this one had huge walls topped with barbed wire surrounding bus loading areas. A large metal door separated us from the harsh, outside world. Light crept in from beneath it illuminating the shadows of people slowly wandering around outside. This truly was some sort of zombie movie! We exited the confines of our safe haven in search of a taxi. We would have preferred to walk since it was probably only a mile away, but everyone we encountered told us it was too dangerous.
One of the Tica bus employees was sitting on the curb having a smoke, while another man stood next to a parked cab. The man asked if we needed a taxi, and before we could say yes he disappeared into the darkness in search of the driver. While he was gone the Tica bus employee passively told us to make sure we established a price. He and Phil exchanged words in Spanish. I don't speak Spanish, but sometimes I can understand some very basic things, and occasionally even respond. Phil jokingly said to the man that the cab driver might charge us the gringo special. Without looking up or visibly showing much care, the man shrugged and nodded in agreement then took his hand and made a chopping motion towards the back of his neck. We stopped smiling because it was abundantly clear he was saying, "yeah, they could charge you a few extra bucks... or they could just chop off your head." I'm not going to lie, I definitely got shivers up my spine; not only because he made the gesture, but the manner in which he made it. It was delivered with a calm detachment that seemed almost desensitized, like "this was just a part of everyday life." Yeah, I'm not sure I'm too into Managua.
Relying on taxis wouldn't be so much of an issue if we only needed one, but we have just enough people that requires us to get a second. Now, we could just try to pile into one cab, but obviously they don't want us to do that when they can hook up a friend and make more money. This was the first cab that let us all pile in. This was also the first cab that charged us the original quoted amount. We browsed through the stores and found nothing cheap. In fact, I think some things here are more expensive. Everyone was tired, hungry, and a little bit crabby. It was probably the first night that no one felt like drinking, Nina included! The food court yielded nothing too appetizing so we kept our options open. The immediate vicinity of the mall yielded even less. Uneasy about searching any further away from the mall, we returned to it. The food court was filled with, well, basically mall food, but there were a couple of small food stands outside the entrance. I wanted to try some local fare, and one of these stands looked to be a small, bare bones operation run by a family. They were selling this distinct cheese that they topped with a creamy onion relish concoction then wrapped in a tortilla. I grabbed one while everyone else opted for Subway or Chinese. It was so good that I went back for another. A stage was set up in the food court and some sort of talent show/karaoke thing was going on. Little kids acted out short musical skits while others sang songs. We watched while we chomped down, and kept daring each other to get up there. They didn't seem to have any American music so we let the dream die.
With nothing to do and a seemingly dangerous place on the other side of the walls, we went for a movie. A few of the films were English with Spanish subtitles. We chose La Noche del Demonio aka Insidious. From the start Ryan and I turned it into Mystery Science Theater 3000. Books seem to get knocked off shelves a lot in that movie, and every time that happened Ryan and I died laughing. The movie ended around 11pm, and the majority of the mall had already closed. We were now faced with the task of finding a non-decapitating cab. No part of that movie could match the scary feeling of leaving the mall to find a taxi. There was a line of them awaiting customers. One of the drivers approached us with smile asking if we needed a ride. He told us it would be $2 per person which was pretty much a gringo tax since we were only traveling about a mile. Tom haggled with him, and got the price lowered to $10. When it was time to pay I was the only one with money, a welcome change. The driver kept saying it was $12. I told him we agreed upon $10, but he wouldn't let up. Rather than stand in the street and argue over $2, I just tossed it to him and went inside our gated community. We prepared for bed all still a little psyched out from the movie, but we needed to be up early.
BUS BREAKIN', PUPUSA EATIN', AND TRANNY HOOKER CRUISIN'
At 4am we dragged ourselves out of bed and walked down the stairs to our awaiting bus. It was so relieving to have a morning free of worrying whether or not we were going to make our bus on time. Today's bus ride was going to be brutal. Fortunately, our accommodations were a step up from what we were used to having. We now had air conditioning, TVs, a bathroom, etc. It was the lap of luxury. Those things made a 12 hour ride to San Salvador seem like a cakewalk. Our trip would take us briefly through Honduras. That meant we would be dealing with 4 separate borders; leaving Nicaragua, entering Honduras, leaving Honduras, and entering El Salvador. Tica bus would make things VERY easy though. A lot of times we wouldn't even need to leave the bus. Before reaching the border, one of the staff would collect everyone's passports. They would then enter the border building and sort everything out, and finally redistribute the passports. No mess, no fuss. Leaving Nicaragua was the last time we would have to get off the bus. This time when exiting, there was no shortage of predators waiting for us. They were relentless. Even after we entered the building and stood in line there were people begging for money. This frail, very old woman shuffled up to each and every person with outstretched hand. Her voice was no louder than a whisper. We would shake our heads, but she would not move only continue to mutter. So we would turn our backs to her and she would just shuffle to our front. After awhile we just let her stand there and until she would finally walk away. The room was small and bare. On one end were the administrative workers manning teller-like windows. They faced the back of the room which was a solid wall. Both side walls were just glass doors. While we waited to pay our exit fee, all the predators stood outside the glass doors watching us. Other tourists exited and were besieged by the small mob of people. Luckily it took us a little bit to get through so by the time we got out they had all dispersed.
We had to wait to board our bus at the
Honduran border. The morning sun beat down on us while we waited. There were a few huts alongside the road that sold food and travel items. In front of one hut
was a small clay oven not unlike a BBQ pit. A frying pan was set over a small opening on the top, and filled with oil. Burning logs were used to heat the oven. We watched curiously as they fried tortillas in the pan. It looked nothing short of delicious. Since everyone is vegan some of them eat vicariously through me. Sometimes I amuse myself by telling them things are better than they actually are because I can see the drool coming out of their mouths. Also this usually sparks me to pose hypothetical situations for no other reason but to play devil's advocate. Like, "you're vegan for no other reason but animal rights, correct? So I would bet my bank account that this woman owns the cow from which she gets her milk and cheese, or it at least comes from a local farmer she knows who probably only owns one or two cows at most. Would you eat cheese then?" They usually answer just to humor me, but I can tell they're thinking, "shut it." I ordered a cheese quesadilla and savored it in front of everyone. We were bummed when we saw them frying plaintains and black beans because the bus was ready and it was too late for us to order.
There was another group on the bus that spoke English. It was two cute girls from Germany and a guy from LA. We began talking to them at a food stand when they helped Phil identify whether or not something was vegan. The girls names were Stefani and Kristina. I never caught the guy's name. It makes me smile to write that because I know if anyone reads this they're going to think, "of course, you didn't get the
guy's name." Trust me, it wasn't like he came up to shake hands and I blew him off with, "yeah yeah yeah, buddy, keep it moving. Soooo, ladies..." I seriously didn't get his name! Anyway, on trips I hate sleeping when we're en route to somewhere because I want to see as much of the area as possible. Sometimes you see the best stuff from the van or bus. I couldn't stay awake this time though. I fought it, but I was done. I didn't feel so bad because the
countryside started to blend together.
I was awoken when we were exiting Honduras. The bus stopped in the middle of nowhere. There was nothing around as far as the eye could see. Two cops sat under what looked like a picnic pavilion. Phil told me that they would be entering the bus and personally checking passports. He said that since we were white they would probably just walk right past us. They entered the bus and slowly walked up and down the aisles. TVs hung every few feet making it difficult to walk. Sure enough the man got to me and stopped. He smiled and patted my belly then walked to Phil and patted his belly. I assume he did this because we were both wearing bulky hoodies and he was trying to check the front pockets. Or he was trying to get us both to laugh, in which he succeeded. Things got a little tense when the cops demanded to see one of the passenger's passports. It was dead silent as the cop sternly argued with the man. And although I couldn't understand it, I could tell that the cop was putting him in his place. Satisfied in emasculating the man, the cop turned to walk up the aisle and his head was met by one of the hanging TVs. A thud sound cut through the silence. Whatever language or communication barrier that existed between us was erased as everyone on the bus began to look at one another all sharing the exact same thought; "OH MY GOD, THAT WAS THE FUNNIEST THING I'VE EVER SEEN!"
We are now in El Salvador, the most dangerous country in Latin America. There was trash everywhere. The bus pulled into a gas station which was not surrounded by much. The bus driver warned us not to stray because it was dangerous. Yeah, no problem, bud. This would be our only rest stop before arriving in San Salvador. In addition to having normal gas station fare it also had a small cafeteria style buffet of Latin food. Even though it looked good, it pretty much would be like if 711 offered "authentic" Mexican food. Everyone had been so excited for the pupusas we'd be eating in El Salvador that they all ate light. I scoped out a large bottle of water and my eye caught a little something called Smirnoff Ice. The past few days have seen a sharp decrease in the amount of this swill we've forced each other to drink. I felt it was time to restart the war. I stealthily made a couple of laps around the gas station, searching for the perfect opportunity to grab the Ice. By the time I saw my window everyone but Nina had already bought their food. I joined her in line and slyly held the Ice between my arm and side like I was holding a folded newspaper. I was giggling the entire time because I knew she had no idea. She almost discovered my trickery at the register, but some quick thinking kept the secret safe. I was the last one on the bus, grinning ear to ear all the way to my seat. I got situated and smugly reveled in self-satisfaction. Now I just bide my time. That's when I heard Nina groan from the seat behind me. I turned around to find that an even more sly Phil had Iced Nina. We all had a good laugh. Now I was free to Ice someone else. Nina begrudgingly tried to open the bottle, but it was a non-twist cap. She facetiously said, "oh no, now I won't be able to open it." With the Ice can already in my hand, I turned around and said, "oh, well you can just have mine then." I'm such a great friend. Nina was not amused. She felt we were ganging up on her, but we explained to her that it was purely coincidence. To show her that we were still great guys, we let her sip instead of chugging it. And then
Ice'd Tom.
The show today was starting at 1pm, but the earliest we could arrive would be 4pm. It probably wouldn't start on time anyway, but we would be late regardless. We all relaxed and watched a poorly dubbed movie about a black, American boxer jailed in an Eastern European gulag. Nina proudly pointed out that the movie's co-star was a famous Croatian actor. We took turns narrating what we thought was being said when we heard a loud noise. It sounded like we ran over something, or had a tire blow out. We were currently passing through
San Miguel which is directly between the Honduran border and San Salvador. We sat tight for a bit until we realized we were going nowhere. People began to get off the bus to stretch their legs. We went to inspect the damage. It appeared that the drive shaft had snapped. We were
definitely not going anywhere. They announced that another bus was coming to pick us up, but it wouldn't arrive for another hour. Great, now we'd be really late. Ironically, we broke down directly in front of auto repair shop. There was a
car parked up the street with a
huge swastika on the back window, so we decided to go talk to the Germans for a bit.
After 2 hours another bus showed up. We had been traveling for close to 14 hours, and everyone wanted off the bus by the end of it. It was dark by the time we reached San Salvador. It was a really busy city, not what I expected at all. There were a ton of food stands with an equal number of fast food. Our bus zig-zagged through the streets of San Salvador making it seem like we were going in circles. Which, at one point, we actually were. Derek pointed out that we may be avoiding specific dangerous areas by taking the long way. We drove around the city for almost 30 mins before pulling into the last, tiny bus station. Families lounged around the small waiting area which seemed like someone's living room, while their children ran amok. Men with shotguns stood guard at the front door. We had no idea what to do. No messages had been left for us, and we did not have any of the promoter's contact information offhand. There was an old computer in the corner that was internet accessible. Derek found the info and contacted the promoter who said he was on his way. The German camp was considering coming to the show, but we didn't even know the venue's name much less it's address.
Soon two vehicles showed up and we quickly loaded them. It was unsure whether or not we would even get to play since it was 8:25 and the show had to end by 9pm. The show had technically ended over an hour ago, but people still remained to watch Unrestrained. The venue was this bombed-out looking store front, and kids were scattered throughout it. We loaded in as fast as we could. Everyone was super friendly, even more so to Nina. I don't think there was ever a point when there wasn't at least
1 or 2 guys talking to her. Ryan said it was because she was the whitest person they've ever seen; a super gringo. Unrestrained needed equipment, but most of the bands had already left. People sprang into action tracking down stuff for them to use. We scrounged around the venue to see what was laying about, and managed to construct a less than presentable drum set. They were barely in working order, but would have to suffice. I was told this was still better than the set they used last time when Tom had to hold the snare on his lap while he played. I took the job of drum wrangler. Throughout the set, a different piece of the drums would either fall over, slide out of place, or just plain break down. The ride cymbal was only about half usable, and every time Tom would hit it the bad half would turn towards him. I developed a rhythm with him where I would turn the good portion of the cymbal towards him before every hit.
After the set we stuck around and tried to hold conversations with people, but it was mostly just frustrated laughter of not being able to communicate. This really drunk kid was stumbling around, throwing his arm around any American he saw and saying, "you are my friend, motherfucker!!" Then he would demand anyone near with a camera to take a picture. I had been referring to him as "whaaaaaaaasssssuuuuuuuuupp??!," because before the band's set he grabbed the mic to address the audience and looked like he was just going to yell, "whaaaassssup?," like the old Budweiser commercial. Anybody who took a picture with him would yell,
"WHAAAAASSSSUUUUUUP?," as the
photo was snapped. I initially took up the merch duties. A large number of people browsed through the merch - some even going as far as having me dig out their specific size shirt - only to ask, "can I have this for free?" I understand that this country is faced with widespread poverty, but it doesn't make one feel very charitable when you don't even make an attempt to offer any money. When I asked if they had
any money they took that as me trying to haggle with them, and only led to them making demands like, "how about I buy this cd and you give me the shirt for free." I quickly grew tired of the parade of unreasonable demands, so I pawned off the merch on someone else. Their friend, the promoter, had to leave early because he wouldn't have a ride otherwise. I asked him about public transportation, and he said it was too dangerous after dark.
It was now pupusa time! Since we landed in Costa Rica all I've been told is wait until we get pupusas in El Salvador. Outside of the venue a
large billboard taunted our hunger. We would be staying with Maro. The band stayed with he and his mom last time they were here. His friend Dennis drove us to a small restaurant a short distance away. Some guys we talked with at the show came along, as well. I was really hungry, and the pupusas were about $.60 apiece. This was a great combination. I was unfamiliar with some of the pupusa options so Dennis went over the menu with me explaining each of them. The culmination of the day's events had left me cranky with a short fuse. The vegans were doing nothing to help this. I was immediately ready to order, but they complicated everything. Pupusas are basically a fried corn tortilla filled with cheese and whatever else you'd like to put in there. The vegans, obviously, were ordering all of theirs sans cheese. This request was met with blank, confused stares. It was the equivalent of ordering a grilled cheese and asking them to hold the cheese. Dennis was placing our order so that our modified pupusas would be communicated properly to the staff. I was worried that my pupusas would be cheese-less since my order was being placed with theirs. You don't mess with my food! Everyone seemed to be in their own world as a piece of paper was passed around for us to write our orders. Dennis then
rewrote everything so he didn't miss anything. I was getting really antsy because it was taking forever.
The order was finally placed and everyone sat in relative silence due to general tiredness. While we waited, Maro asked if we would like to see his
video game shop which was
above the pupusa place. Tom, Phil, Ryan, and I checked it out. It seemed to be more of a gaming center that focused on stuff like Magic card tournaments. I think he does the majority of his business by pre-ordering games for people. In his backroom he had a ton of limited edition games and toys. It was a pretty cool place. Back downstairs, our food arrived, and we shoved face. On each table was a jar of some sort of housemade salsa type mixture. It was all delicious. The table of kids from the show came over to say their goodbyes before taking off. One of our hosts told us we could get free tattoos if we wanted to go to his friend's shop. We also had the option to go to the beach. Our party was split; half of us wanted to go, but the other half just wanted bed since our bus left at 5am... again. We paid and went outside to debate the plans further. Maro came out and said there was a discrepancy with our bill. He told us we still owed money. No problem, we thought. Things had been pretty confusing when we tried to settle up, so we figured they just forgot to charge us for some. The woman at the register said we still owed $12. With pupusas being 60 cents there was no way that could be possible. We didn't have an itemized bill to work from so we did the math ourselves and could not account for the extra $12. That's when we found out that the table of kids from the show had told the woman we would be taking care of their check. Ryan thought it was funny. I thought it was shitty, but then again I was really crabby. I think Ryan was just trying to make the best of the situation. For the record, it
is a good prank. But it's a good prank to do someone you know. To me it felt like, "they're Americans on tour, they can handle it. They're probably rich anyway." Either way, it was the restaurant's problem, not ours. Ryan made a good point, if we didn't pay then the onus would fall on our hosts. I didn't feel it was their problem either, but I didn't want them to have to pay so we ponied up.
Tom, Derek, and I all chose the beach, but when we got back to Maro's it didn't look like we were going anywhere. It was almost midnight, but Maro woke his mom because she wanted to say hello. She was a
sweet, tiny lady who doted on everyone. She gave us all hugs, and commented on how much some of us have grown, "ooooooh, grande!" She didn't speak English so we had to rely on Maro to translate the best he could. Maro's friend, Poio, was hanging out, too. Despite barely being able to speak English, he managed to get laughs using pantomime and noises. Maro had an awesome collection of video games and toys. He even had a complete set of old Ghostbusters toys that I completely forgot existed. We all spread out around the small house. Some of us played video games, some played on the internet, but soon only Tom, Poio, Maro, and I remained awake. Tom and I were getting heavy eyed, but Maro and Poio showed no signs of fatigue. The language barrier provided a frustrating obstacle as we tried to teach them how to play Pass the Trash. I had the bright idea to try using Google Translate in hopes of better explaining the rules, but I think it only worsened the situation. We carried on anyway, but the whole concept of betting money was lost on them, that or they just didn't care--I think it may have been the latter. Tom and I were really tired. We kept exchanging glances hoping the other had a way to bed, but it just wasn't happening; and we didn't want to be rude to our hosts.
Maro suggested we get some snacks from the gas station so we hopped in his car. He lives in a small house in a regular neighborhood. It looked like any Southern California neighborhood out in the valley. Except at the beginning of each street was a night watchman manually lifting a traffic arm allowing cars to pass. Poio related to us, as best he could, a story in which the watchman spied through Maro's window while he was having sex, and begged for him to let him join. I have no idea if this was true or not because about 95% (heh) of the far fetched stories he tells leaves Maro laughing uncontrollably with his distinct, high pitch squeal. Seriously, I've never seen someone laugh so hard for so long. For the rest of the night Poio would mimic the guard and say, "oooooh, Maro. Gimmie! Gimmie!," which sounded more like "geee-meeee geeee-meeee!" He even said this to the guard! Poio and Maro had been making cross-dressing hooker jokes most of the night, and the next thing you know we're cruising sketchy neighborhoods looking for cross dressing hookers. We weren't cruising to pick them up; although, I think Maro and Poio were secretly hoping we would since the line separating joke and sincerity was quickly blurring. We were driving around in Maro's jeep. Poio was sitting shotgun with Tom behind him. The top of the jeep was on so at first glance Tom and I were not visible. We drove up and down some streets before finding our first prostitute. The man-in-drag sheepishly ignored Poio and Maro's catcalls, and we drove off. We all had a good laugh, and Tom and I thought we were headed home. That wasn't the case.
We went deeper into sketchy areas to find more, while Maro giggled with delight and Poio tried his earnest to tell us another story. Long ago Tom and I had given up on trying to decipher what he was saying so we would just politely laugh whenever Maro would erupt. I was so exhausted that I was on the verge of snapping. Tom and I sat awkwardly (and nervously) in the back as things briskly progressed; catcalling became price negotiation, and stopping for a few seconds became stopping for a few minutes. It seemed with each stop the neighborhood got progressively worse, too. We were getting very weary of the Maro/Poio show. At the last stop we made, Poio pulled his seat up to expose Tom and I, beckoning an obviously male hooker over to the jeep. He asked the man how much for Tom or me. The hooker took one look at me and said I was too old. I think Poio also told him I was Amish because of my full beard. He/She liked baby-faced Tom, though. I think he/she cut him a deal; $3 for everything. We sat there for an uncomfortable amount of time before Maro realized we were not budging, or even really laughing anymore. I think that signified the end of our hooker escapades, and we made our way back home.
It was now 2am. We would only be able to get 2 hours of sleep before we'd have to leave for the bus station. Maro and Poio were not slowing down. They urged us to watch internet videos with them. Immediately they put on 2 Girls, 1 Cup. Maro was laughing so hard he was crying while Poio yelled, "WILLY WONKA! WILLY WONKA!" With Poio distracted by Maro lighting the farts out of his bare ass, we snuck into the living room and feigned sleep. From the other room we could hear the video being replayed over and over amidst Maro's high pitch squeal and, "WEE-LEE WONG-KAH! WEE-LEE WONG-KAH!" Oddly enough, these are the same things I heard when I woke up, 2 hours later. Everyone was really frazzled at this point. Our lack of refreshing sleep was beginning to span days. We had no conclusive answer to what time our bus was leaving. The website (which had been incorrect in almost every instance we've referenced it) said 5am. The schedule posted on the wall at the station said 5:30am. Maro and Poio said 6am. This was not the time to be taking chances so we chose the earliest option, and called a taxi to come pick us up. We took
some group photos under the moon while we waited for the taxi to arrive.
Because of our numbers and luggage, half of us rode in the cab while the other half rode with Maro and Poio. Guess who rode with Maro and Poio... Tom and I enviously watched the cab drive away, taking our sanity along with it. We stood in the street with our bags while Beavis and Butthead were too busy yelling "WILLY WONKA!" and "GIMMIE! GIMMIE!" to let us in the jeep. Tom finally had enough, and said, "our bus leaves at 5am. It is now 4:45am!" Their faces went serious, and we drove off. But once in the car it went back to "WILLY WONKA!" and our top speed never exceeded 30 mph. We arrived at a
different bus station to find that the bus did in fact leave at 6am, phew! Maro and Poio came inside so we could exchange goodbyes. It was like they flipped a switch and became completely serious. Their goodbyes were almost heartfelt. I thought Maro might tear up. Maro and Poio were quite the pair. As annoyed as I was at the moment, I will definitely miss these two; as apparent by the number of times I said "Willy Wonka!" on the remainder of the trip.
COVER SINGIN', RELAXIN', HEADIN' HOME
Today signified my last day of tour/vacation. I was going to miss hanging out with everyone, but I was also ready to go home. In my touring experiences, there is always a point where things get depressing. Not depressing because we're no longer having fun, but because I know the fun is going to end soon. It usually happens on the turnaround. The turnaround, just as the name implies, is the point of tour where you reach the furthest distance and have to turn around to begin the trip back home.
Imagine climbing a mountain. The anticipation and excitement exists from the moment you commit yourself to the idea. Even all hard work that goes into the planning is exciting. Then the big day comes, you charge the mountain with everything you've got. Once at the top, your physical and mental exhaustion are barely noticeable. You stand there, proud. You think back to the very beginning of the journey and everything that has brought you to this point. There is no way anyone else feels the way you do right now. You feel accomplished; you feel alive! Then you gather your things, look down the mountainside and think, "son of a..." Sure, for the first few hours you're still reeling from your achievements, but then it just becomes plain ole work. You're no longer climbing the mountain, you're descending back to reality. There might be a few things to look forward to on the way down; maybe on the way up a berry bush caught your eye and you didn't have time to grab any, or maybe you thought you saw a dead body in a cave, but there was no time to fully explore. Those are just distractions, though, because invariably your descent marks the return to regular life. Linear touring - flying into one city and flying out of another - which is what we were doing, helps with the sadness a little, but inevitably it shows up at some point.
I slept until we reached the
Guatemala border, which we breezed through. We reached Guatemala City in the afternoon, and I was really surprised. It was a
huge, urban area. I guess if I actually knew stuff, I would know that it is the largest city in Central America. Due to lack of internet and our schedule changing so sporadically, we didn't line up a ride from the bus station. Facebook to the rescue, once again. Phil contacted his friend Natalia to pick us up. Wisely, her friend Andria drove, too, so that we could ride in relative comfort. Driving with Natalia was pretty much like driving with Karen. Within 10 mins of being in the car, she pulled a maneuver that left everyone speechless and tensed in their seats. Since I am the biggest of everyone I usually get the pleasure of riding in the
front seat, awesome. I asked her if she had ever been in accident before since we were almost just in one. She said she had been in many, but none ever involving people. Later, we found out that was a lie.
Nata just smiled and said, "hey, I wanted to put you guys at ease!" Her neighborhood was like a mini town. At the forefront was a guard shack with keycard entry. We kidded her about her high class neighborhood, but she assured us that almost every neighborhood in Guat. City had a guard shack. Inside, there were a couple of corner stores among the tightly packed houses. Nata lived with her parents and siblings in probably the nicest house we've stayed on tour. We dropped off our things and took a breather before heading to the show.
Guatemala City is separated into zones. Some zones are nice, some are dangerous. We were going to be in Zone 1, the oldest zone. Besides holding the most historical significance it was also pretty dangerous. I'm so tired of dangerous. It seems every time we want to do something we're told it's too dangerous. Throughout tour I've kept my camera around my neck, and tucked into my jacket. I always look like I am carrying a camera shaped baby. Constantly being told everything is so dangerous, I didn't want to take any chances in getting it stolen. Judging from my photo album one could figure out very quickly which places were more dangerous than others. I took about 2 pictures in Nicaragua compared to 100 in Costa Rica. Once in a moving vehicle my camera was glued to my face.
We drove into Zone 1 and Nata told me roll up my window and keep my pictures to a minimum. I asked if crime was really that bad. She told me that once she was at a stoplight and two girls banged on her window, demanding her phone. While I don't doubt her story or the dangerousness of the area, I thought maybe she had some unrealistic fears. Most of the streets were
pretty desolate, and the ones that were busy seemed to be mostly
families or younger kids. We stopped to eat at an all vegetarian restaurant before the show. Nina and Derek were still on their way, but no one wanted to wait that long. The restaurant had a short buffet, and cafeteria style counter of desserts and sides. Unaware that we could also order from a menu, the guys went absolutely wild grabbing as many things as they could (mostly desserts). I planned on eating from street vendors so I only got a small snack. Nina and Derek arrived just as we were about to delve into the desserts.
There was an array of pie, and everyone took a different slice with the intention of sharing. Tom went first. He had picked out an brilliant red pie. We all imagined it would be bursting with exotic fruit flavors. He took one bite, and his face displayed confusion and disgust. "It's nothing," he said. "What do you mean, it's nothing?" we asked. "The pie filling is just red dyed tofu. It tastes like nothing!" He handed it to me, and it indeed tasted like nothing. It was just matter existing solely to be consumed for possible nutritional value and sustenance, not for any sort of taste or enjoyment. We passed it around until it sat at the end of the table, shamed and untouched. The end of the table was punishment for bad desserts, and the majority of them suffered a similar fate; that is, until Nina showed up.
The venue was only about 5 blocks away, and Nata asked if anyone wanted to walk since she only had so much room in her car. YES! YES! I've never been so happy to choose walking over driving. Around the corner from the restaurant was a blocked off street to allow for people to vend, shop, and
street perform. This was the first place we've been told was dangerous, yet it seemed so vibrant and lively. It was Sunday and it seemed a lot of families were out enjoying the day. Every few feet was a large group of people crowded around some sort of street performer. There were magicians, musicians, gymnasts, artists, etc. It was like I was at a carnival! Even though I felt relatively safe, I still made sure my camera was tucked under my jacket, and obsessively felt for my wallet and passport every few minutes. We were getting a lot of looks, but I think it was because we were gringos that towered over the general population.
After a few blocks, the street opened into a town square. There were
tents and vendors everywhere! On one end was a
massive cathedral and fountain, the other was a small park where people lounged about. It was like a monstrous flea market. Rows of tents sold everything from trinkets to TV remotes. Little old women slaved over small fires to offer homemade tamales and huge corn on the cobs. We had no time to hang out because we needed to
meet up with everyone at the venue, but as soon as we reached it I was itching to go back. There were tons of guards with shotguns. Some were posted on at the street level some on top of buildings. It definitely made things feel more dangerous.
On the drive in I saw a man selling peruvian flutes and recorders. I wanted to buy one for my friend so I asked if anyone would like to go for a stroll. I explained to Nata where I saw the man, and she offered to lead the way. Nata rules, but she is admittedly bad with directions. I felt I knew where we should go, but she insisted we avoid smaller, less traveled streets for fear of danger. I didn't say anything because she's a local and obviously knows more than me, but I think she might think some places are a little bit more dangerous than they actually are. We walked for awhile with no luck. I could sense everyone's crankiness so I called off the search. Nata swore we entered Zone 1 from a specific direction, but the landmarks I recognized begged to differ. I thought we were traveling parallel to the road we needed to be on, and it turned out to be true. The spot where I saw the man was actually about a block from the venue. D'OH!
Nata told us the venue was a metal bar. She wasn't lying. The inside was mostly lit by
black lights.
Skulls lined the upper portions of the walls while black light posters of skeletons lined the bottom. There were even some Graffix posters! The first band was starting as we walked in. They were actually really good NYHC type stuff. I talked to the singer after their set. He told me it was their 2nd show and that last show he was the bassist, but they kicked the singer out. Good move, he was a great frontman. We shot the shit for a bit, he had good taste in music. I went inside and found Nina at the bar ready to get her drink on. Neither of us were familiar with their beer selection so we asked the bartender for a recommendation. She told us that everyone gets "the mix." That's all we needed to hear, "THE MIX" IT WAS! We ordered a pitcher's worth and curiously watched as the bartender made this mysterious concoction. There were only two drafts available. She filled our pitcher halfway with the first, then finished it off with the second which caused the pitcher to head like crazy. Wow, we're going to drink two different types of beer, it must be distinct and delicious to earn it's own nickname. It was really good and smooth, but something just wasn't right about it. I couldn't put my finger on it. There was a really odd, faint aftertaste, but it was addicting enough that you kept drinking. As I poured the final glass, still unsure of what I was drinking, I studied the mixture. I swished it around in the glass, and watched how the way it foamed. This could only mean one thing, "the Mix" was beer and (drumroll, please) COLA! That explains why after the second glass I was no longer interested in finishing the pitcher. In an instant it became
too much.
In the middle of the 7 band show, complete with ska band bands covering Sublime and a ska version of Anarchy in the UK, having no sleep finally caught up with me. I was passing out while standing. I went into a backstage area and sat against the wall, nodding off. From my vantage point I could see the bartender and the edge of the crowd. Each time I would try to open my eyes, someone would be staring at me. They must've thought I was wasted. We walked around like zombies for the remainder of the show. This would be the last time I would ever get to see Unrestrained - and all the guys under one roof - unless I go to Vermont. Even though the style of music isn't exactly my thing, their band really grew on me. Maybe it has something to do with once having watched them every night for 3 weeks, ha, but I think they're really underrated. Besides being some of the greatest friends a guy could have, they're some of the most fun people to be around. They also make great travel companions. I should know because they're the only people I've ever extensively traveled with abroad. I'm going to miss them terribly.
I stood up front during their set, but moved to the side since all the local kids were pretty short; and I felt I was blocking their view. I've seen this band enough, I don't want take away from someone else's experience. This was probably only the 2nd time this year that an American, underground touring band has stopped here, and I didn't want a fond memory to be the back of my fat head. Before the show, we discussed me singing a cover song. I've sang a song with them at least once on every tour we've taken together; it's practically tradition. I wasn't sure if it was happening since they never gave me a definite answer, but towards the end of their set Ryan called me up to the small stage. I sang a
Bad Brains song to
little fanfare. They played one more song, and I decided to goofy mosh during it. A lot of times at the end of their set, much to their dismay, I stand in the back and yell, "ONE MORE SONG!," hoping to incite the crowd. This time it was unnecessary. After their last song no one budged. A handful of people yelled, "UNO MAS!" The band played one more song and that was that. People thanked them for playing, and asked if they would pose for photos. In typical fashion, all the ladies approached Phil to tell him how great he did. :-)
We packed up, and rode with Sergio, Nata's ex, to Andria's house. The ride was a bit awkward. Sergio was still pretty broken up over Nata, and didn't seem to want to talk about much else. I kind of felt bad for the guy. We've all been through break ups. We swung by a corner store for some plantains and black beans then on to Andria's where
she, Nata, and Sergio prepared everything masterfully. Everyone was eating so fast that I had to warn them to save some for our hosts. Afterwards, we sat around discussing the problems of our respective countries, mainly healthcare in the US and the corruption in Guatemala. Our stories did not reflect much hope for humanity. It was getting late so we drove back to Nata's for much needed rest. Originally, I had imagined my last night in town would be a wild and crazy occasion, but seeing everyone on the verge of collapse, I realized the night was going to end rather unceremoniously. Ryan and I stayed up and played around on the internet after everyone else had fallen asleep. We discovered Nata and Nina had left their facebook's open so we amused ourselves by updating their statuses. We were laughing so hard I'm surprised we didn't wake up the entire house.
The next morning Nata woke me with an early wake up call. She was going to drive me to the airport since I had to be there pretty early, and
traffic would be bad on this Monday morning. Everyone was still asleep while I packed my things in the front room. I heard someone coming down the stairs, and turned around to look; it was Nata's dad. He smiled at me, but then quickly put up his hands as if I were an intruder. I laughed and said hello as he mimicked shooting me with his finger. He smiled again and we both went about our business. It was a pretty funny interaction where almost no words were exchanged. My favorite kind. The night before, Ryan and Phil said they wanted to
accompany me to the airport. Phil was awake, but Ryan was fast asleep and looked too peaceful to wake. Before leaving, I slipped a symbolic note into Nina's shoe instructing her to Ice herself. Hopefully she did. I almost got caught because she awoke as I was walking out the door, and so did Derek. I said goodbye and gave them both big hugs then went on my way. I was going to miss everyone and all of their unique quirks, especially Nina's matter-of-fact, aggressive tone that she didn't feel was aggressive. Honestly, I didn't think it was too aggressive, but it was just too much fun to not give her shit about.
At the airport, I gave Nata and Phil hugs and thanked Nata for all the hospitality. I really wish I was staying longer because this week everyone was planning on going to Mayan ruins. My trip went in reverse. I stopped in Houston, then onto Chicago where I would have to take a bus back to St. Louis. The one thing I didn't adjust was my bus. I had tried to call them while in Arenal, but could never get through. I got to the station and hoped I could find an earlier bus, such was not the case. I also had to pay a rescheduling fee since I was supposed to have left a day earlier. I just wanted to go home. I had 3 hours to kill with nothing to do. Luckily, my friend Laurel lived a few blocks from the station. We got dinner, and she introduced me to the Walking Dead which we watched until it was time for me to go. I walked back to the station and boarded the bus with the rest of the mutants and misfits. I soon fell asleep, and when I awoke I was back in good ole St. Louis. Time to get back to reality. To all my friends, old and new, I'll miss each and every one of you. Stay dangerous, and CAPI CAPI!
