From Nica to Tico
Woke up in my tent in the yard of Casa Cristina, knowing I had a border to cross that day. I’d have to be on point to make the ten o’clock shuttle in Playa Maderas, two beaches over. Made a pot of tea, looked at the ocean and perfect beach for a little while, then started pulling all my belongings out of the tent. Found to my dismay hundreds of little black ant in the tent, hundreds more big red ones in my backpack, carrying around big white eggs. They thought they’d found the perfect place for a colony. How do all these ants get into a closed tent? I cannot say. And streaks of cat piss outside where the resident herd had taken turns marking their territory. When nature happens.
My border crossing was potentially fraught with peril, not so much with danger but financial implications. On the Nicaragua side, I had overstayed my 90-day CA-4 visa by four days, and there could be fines of an unknown amount. In my defense, the migration officer at the northern Nica border had given me a thirty day tourist card, and told me I should stay longer, that seventeen days were not enough to see the country. Then on the Costa Rica side of the border, perhaps dependent on whether they thought I was a threat to remain indefinitely in their country, I might be required to show proof of onward travel, which I did not have.
So in preparation for these pitfalls, in the attempt to make a good impression, I showered and shaved and trimmed the stray beard hairs and put on my best clothes, long pants and a collared long-sleeve shirt. These things may seem unexceptional, but they felt like a serious sacrifice before a long day of bus travel in the tropical heat.
Managed to evict the ants from my belongings through much shaking and violence. Got my bags all packed, said goodbye to Cris the owner and Marit my friend from Canadia, and walked back down the beach towards Playa Maderas. Carrying my heavy bags, my feet sinking deep into sand. What a marvelous beach this was — a part of me felt like it was a mistake to leave. Told Cris and Marit I would be back there someday, and I’d see them then. Climbed over the rocks, down onto the populated beach, past the sunbathers and surfers heading out for the day. I’m sure I made a strange sight in my dress pants.
Made it to the shuttle, a big truck with bench seats under a canopy in back, with ten minutes to spare. The talk among the surfers on our bumpy, jarring ride down to San Juan del Sur was all about snow conditions in British Columbia and Utah. Seemed far-fetched, that there could be snow anywhere when it was this hot, but it was late November.
Got into San Juan at eleven, an hour before the next bus to Rivas left, enough time for me to get a breakfast. Walked to the street market, and at the end, just as rumor had it, there were a couple cheap comedores, a rarity in this tourist town. Sat on the street outside one of them where I had a fine Desayunos Nica: greasy, al dente gallo pinto, a couple fried eggs, soft fried maduro (plantain) and a block of hard queso blanco. Nicaraguan cuisine is not especially creative, but it does what it does very well.
The bus for Rivas was an ancient green Mercedes, maybe from the 70s, and by the time we were out of town it was triple full and could barely pull itself up the coastal slope. I was sharing my bench seat with three humans. Rivas was hot and dirty and chaotic — somehow I’d been there three times, all in passing. There was a crowd of taxi drivers shadowing me around the bus yard, trying to steer me into their car like I was some kind of prized livestock, lying and saying there were no bus to la frontera. I found some people who admitted the existence of a bus, but not until four, and so I found the cheapest colectivo taxi, equivalent of $3 to the border.
Bought a liter of agua to counter the massive amounts leaving my body and got in the backseat of an old Toyota between a woman who talked on her cellphone in a high-pitched voice most of the way and a manspreading guy. This is something I have repeatedly dealt with in shared cars: men who spread out and take up as much room as they possibly can. It turns into this battle of knees — if I don’t want to be pushed into a tiny space, I have to push back and brace myself the whole time. Not much fun.
The road out of town followed mostly to the shore of El Lago de Nicaragua, farmland and cattle pasture, big trees scattered, all of which could almost be Virginia except for the occasional palms and then the sight of a giant volcano off in the distance in the middle of the lake. We drove south an hour and a half, and the taxi dropped us right at the border in the town of Sapao. It was mostly a relaxed scene, a lot of hot people sitting languidly in the shade, halfheartedly calling over to see if I needed to change money.
I waited in the line at Nicaragua migracion, and when my turn came up the man and woman behind the desk looked at my stamps and tourist cards. Luckily for me there seemed to be some kind of work crush going on, and they were in a good mood. I could tell that they were talking about how the dates didn’t match and I’d overstayed my visa. The man went off and talked to another guy, and then he came back, stamped me out, and simply charged me the $2 exit fee, payable only in dollars. So far, so good. Walked the one kilometer no man’s land between the countries — for once no river, only a peaceful forested area. Came into Costa Rica, and though it was clearly still Central America, things were different right away. The migration building was much nicer than normal, freshly painted and relatively modern, with clear signs on where to go.
Very little chaos of random people wandering around selling things, though off to one side I did see a guy pissing against a fence. I walked into the migration office, and when my turn came at the counter, I could tell the men there were skeptical of me. They asked where I was going, why I was traveling to Costa Rica, what was my mode of travel into the country. Why were you in Nicaragua? Why didn’t you take a plane? I could see it coming…can you show us proof of onward travel?
I told them that I would be traveling south into Panama over land, and wouldn’t be taking a plane. I promised that I had no intentions of staying in Costa Rica. They clearly saw me as a sketchy guy, collared shirt aside, and told me I could not enter the country until I had proof of onward travel. Outside, they said, I could buy a bus ticket. Went back out and found a bus office for Tica Bus, and my choices were $42 from San Jose to Panama City, missing half of each country, or San Jose back to Managua, which I certainly wouldn’t be using, but that was only $25. Ugh. My first taste of Costa Rican prices.
The lady at the counter said I could trade the tickets in later for another ticket, but it was not refundable. This trade in wouldn’t be useful to me, as Tica Bus only travels between the capital cities in Central America. I hated this entirely ridiculous policy. Just because I had a bus ticket didn’t mean I wouldn’t overstay my visa. There was a taxi driver standing right next to me, a big guy, and he could see that I was upset. He told me that it was a reasonable policy — if I didn’t like it I shouldn’t come to his country. They had lots of problems with Americans staying too long. The irony.
In frustration I stepped away and tried to light a smoke, but he told me that I wasn’t allowed to smoke here, or anywhere in the border area. Defeated, I bought a twenty-five dollar ticket for a city I wasn’t going back to, almost a whole day’s budget wasted, and went behind the bus office away from Captain Costa Rica to sneak a cigarette. Then I went back into migration and this time it was very busy, and after waiting in a long line, the agent didn’t even ask for my onward ticket. What a charade.
The buses southbound into Costa Rica left from about a hundred yards ahead, and for the first time in three countries I bought a paper ticket for thousands of colones. Somehow the best economy in Central America has the worst exchange rate, something like 550 colones to the dollar. They put my bag in the compartment under the bus and soon I was in an actual seat, rolling down a very smoothly paved highway. There was almost no litter by the roadside, and the air felt clean and crisp despite the heat. When we would pass rivers, they looked like places a person might actually want to swim. I hadn’t had that sensation in months.
This northern part of Costa Rica at first was very similar to Nicaragua, forest and farmlands, but then we came up to a high plain. It was drier up here, and off in the distant east was a broad range of significant mountains. The trees looked to be deciduous. We came into the city of Liberia at dusk and I knew I wasn’t going any further that day. Out of the bus terminal, the people I asked for directions were much easier for me to understand than in Nicaragua, and I noticed as I walked through the city things I hadn’t seen in ages. Drivers were sometimes stopping to let pedestrians pass at crosswalks. There were parks with actual grass and without litter. As I came into the center I was feeling both very tired and much better about this country than I had expected, despite the unfriendly reception at the border.
Further culture/budget shock came at the Hotel Liberia, apparently the budget option in town, where they wanted $15 for a single room. The most I’d paid in months, and not even in a place I really wanted to be. Oh well, I knew Costa Rica would be expensive. Walked out into the night, wandered around clean streets, noticed that the women were beautiful and fit and confident, looking me right in the eye. I sat in the plaza watching breakdancers and some kind of a cross fit group. We were definitely in a different decade here.
After checking out numerous restaurant options, I saw one with a menu board that seemed acceptable. But when I went inside and sat down, I found out those prices were only for lunch, and there was nothing under $10. I had to walk out in shame. Happened upon a pizzeria and got a $4 calzone, more like a large empanada, which completely hit the spot, enough so that when I finished it, I went ahead and ordered a second. With a beer, it came to a ten dollar meal anyway. Budget crushed.
As I sit in the lobby of my hotel, it feels a long way from Nicaragua. A slightly different universe, albeit a parallel one in many ways. Rice and beans are the national dish here, too. The music is very similar. But this is a much more affluent and put-together place. It seems that in this case, crossing a border does actually matter. For a long time, apparently it was the other way around: Nicaragua was the wealthy country and Costa Rica was struggling. But now I can see that things are quite different. On my way into town, I saw a young man jogging. The clothes people are wearing, the cleanliness, the air in the streets, the total lack of a feeling of sketchiness. Oh, and you can drink the water here. Right out of the tap. Amazing. I’m on my third glass.
