If we thought that it was hot in Bocas del Toro, we were mistaken. The refreshing cool air of Monteverde has been left behind and we have entered the Nicaraguan oven. Not that we’re complaining about the nice weather. Well, maybe just a bit.
We left Monteverde with a half hour delay due to some bus problems and made the steep and bumpy descent all the way to the Inter-American Highway. There, half an hour was enough to give our skin a nice and rosy tint. We eventually managed to flag down a bus heading to the border and continued our journey northward. The border itself was an interesting experience. The Costa Rican side seemed semi organized. Immigration was housed in a nice air-conditioned building where they quickly stamped your passport and set you on your way. From there, it was about a kilometer trek, first down a nicely paved road which gradually disintegrated until it began to resemble a dirt track. Eventually we tracked down the unmarked Nicaraguan immigration post, somewhere off to the side and stood in line for about 20 minutes to pay the requisite $12US before they would oblige us with a stamp. At that point it was another few hundred meters to leave no men’s land at which time we were required to pay another $1US in municipal taxes. Not quite sure what those were being spent on, since it clearly was not road repairs, signage or air-conditioning.
By this time it was just past noon and we were dripping with sweat. We managed to track down the ever reliable “chicken” (school) bus which took us the 20km to the turnoff to San Juan del Sur. There, a fellow Argentinean backpacker managed to hail down a pickup truck for us, and while Julita climbed into the front, him and I, along with our backpacks and spare tires, climbed into the back. It was so hot outside, that the wind at 70 kph felt like a hot blow drier in one’s face.
The pickup dropped us off at a supermarket just on the outskirt of town and we continued the rest of the way on foot. By the time we got to our hostel, the newly replaced wheel on Julita’s backpack had melted into a squarish blob. We truly are not exaggerating the temperatures out here.
We spent the remainder of the first day hiding from the sun and the heat by sitting in a nice seaside restaurant, enjoying the cold beers and the cool breeze and eventually the sunset.
San Juan is a nice enough little town, but aside for the beach and restaurants it does not have much going for it. It’s located in a small bay, with countless little boats bobbing up and down at anchor just beyond the wave break, and the occasional cruise ship which stops a bit further out. However, the beach itself is not that spectacular, and the town in general is incredibly touristy.
Given all these factors, we decided to spend our second day on one of the beaches located out of town, and again, by collective pickup, headed to Playa Madras, 7km north of town. It is reputed to be the finest surf beach in the area and offered gorgeous white sand that seemed to stretch on and on.
We wandered around, lay out in the sun, swam around in the Pacific Ocean (which was noticeably colder than the Caribbean), sought out the shade, watched the surfers, drank some beer and generally speaking just relaxed for most of the day. Upon returning back to town we quickly got ready and caught yet another chicken bus to the Pitaya Festival that was taking place this weekend. It was billeted as a fantastic party with great bands playing from 2pm till 2am. The only band, however, that seemed to live up to such high praise, were the two St. Louise tourists who played on their guitars and sang while waiting for our bus ride back and during the ride. The rest of the concert was a massive disappointment.
Out in the middle of nowhere, on an incredibly windy and dusty hill, the groups we heard perform were firstly quite atrocious, secondly the sound system was so badly set up that everything seemed out of tune, and thirdly it just sucked. We didn’t stick around long, and instead headed back.
Tomorrow it’s off to Isla de Ometepe, an island shaped like the number “8” with each “o” containing a massive volcano. There we hope to meet up with Paulina and continue our journey together.
PS: Maybe some of our Polish friends might be able to shed some light on this story, because neither Julita nor I had any idea. For now, it has become a standing joke between the two of us, that in unpleasant situations where we might have to cause others pain, we will simply say that we are from Krakow. Over breakfast we met this American guy living in Costa Rica for the last few years and his Australian friend. When the Aussie found out that we were from Poland he asked whether we were from Krakow. Once ascertaining that we weren’t he proceeded to tell us of his experience in that city.
He said that one evening he was out at a bar with some friends and was getting along quite well with a local girl. Having chatted with her for some time he decided to ask her if she was from Krakow (thinking that she may also have been a tourist or visitor). His reward for this question was a fist in his balls, which doubled him over and brought to an end all further conversation. He said he encountered similar, but maybe not as dramatic, reactions when he repeated the question on other occasions in Krakow, including a death glare from a grocery store clerk and could not phantom what could evoke such reactions. We unfortunately were unable to shed any light on this, not having ever heard that people from Krakow were sensitive about being asked their place of origin.
However, further conversation with the Aussie revelaed that he seemed to be a magnate for trouble and have some serious adverse reactions when trying to communicate in local languages. We were less surprised at the response he got in the Krakowian bar after he told us that while in Spain he attempted to order a rum and coke in a large glass in Spanish and was completely ignored by the waitress despite repeating his request a number of times. Eventually the manager came out and told him and his girlfriend to fuck off and get out of there and that if they threatened to kill the waitress, they would not be tolerated in the bar. They were then forcibly escorted by the bouncers. As far as we know, the only word common to “Can I have a rum and coke in a large glass” and “I will kill you” is “I” hence we are not quite sure how one could have been misunderstood for the other.
Oh, this Aussie was also charged 150 Euros for 2 beers and two beers while in Karkow. Apparently each long island ice tea cost the equivalent of 58 euro. Talk about an expensive drink.
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