Well, after almost a month on the road I am back in San Cristóbal de las Casas, México. More stories from Nicaragua to come, and following will be my adventure in finding paid work (HA).
Fotos from Nicaragua, uploaded graciously by Abigail.
22 March 2008
20 March 2008
Departure, for now
Leaving is always hard, I should know this by now, right? Yet, I also knew I had to get back to Mexico or I wouldn't make it out of Nicaragua ever (though actually, and unfortunately too late, now this idea appeals to me). I said good-byes, bit my lip, and got on any bus I could find heading north, north, north.
My exit across the Nicaraguan-Honduran border was very surreal in its contrast to our arrival. Rather than being on a noisy bus with films and a large group of people, it was just me, my bicycle taxi driver and his companion, and an eerie silence only disrupted by the soft sound of gravel under the bicycle taxi tires. Over a bridge, Honduras. The Nicarguan immigration attendant is coincidentally also the attendant for Honduran immigration and doesn't hesitate to charge me twice. When I accidentally and unsuccessfully attempt to steal his pen and am caught, I am indignant and feel that by this point he owes it to me. Whatever.
More buses, more dry and dusty countryside, more solitary travel, more swindling money changers and I arrive at the border of El Salvador, not having eaten or drank water the entire day. I am covered in sweat and dust and begin asking how to find a bus to the capital, San Salvador. People point at the grandiose King Quality coach that is parked at the border, going through the immigration process, and I figure I may as well pay a little bit more and actually get to San Salvador today rather than wander around by myself at night in this unfamiliar country. The luxury of the bus astounds me after being on chicken buses all day, do people really live like this? I feel out of place even though it's just as likely that I would have taken a bus like this had I had the money. A young bus attendant offers me a pillow, blanket, coffee, juice- do people really live like this? Of course they do, I know that they do, but after such a long day, I am struggling to take all of it in.
In San Salvador, my communication with my potential couchsurfers falls through and I spend the night in the bus station. Rain! I haven't seen rain fall in a long time, and it makes for a nice background to the mild chaos unfolding in the early hours at the bus station. It reminds me of how I'll miss taking cold showers in the middle of a brutally hot day. At 6am I board a bus direct to Mexico, missing Nicaragua already, but knowing I'll be back. That land of lakes and volcanos took bits and pieces of my heart at every turn, so of course I'll be back.
My exit across the Nicaraguan-Honduran border was very surreal in its contrast to our arrival. Rather than being on a noisy bus with films and a large group of people, it was just me, my bicycle taxi driver and his companion, and an eerie silence only disrupted by the soft sound of gravel under the bicycle taxi tires. Over a bridge, Honduras. The Nicarguan immigration attendant is coincidentally also the attendant for Honduran immigration and doesn't hesitate to charge me twice. When I accidentally and unsuccessfully attempt to steal his pen and am caught, I am indignant and feel that by this point he owes it to me. Whatever.
More buses, more dry and dusty countryside, more solitary travel, more swindling money changers and I arrive at the border of El Salvador, not having eaten or drank water the entire day. I am covered in sweat and dust and begin asking how to find a bus to the capital, San Salvador. People point at the grandiose King Quality coach that is parked at the border, going through the immigration process, and I figure I may as well pay a little bit more and actually get to San Salvador today rather than wander around by myself at night in this unfamiliar country. The luxury of the bus astounds me after being on chicken buses all day, do people really live like this? I feel out of place even though it's just as likely that I would have taken a bus like this had I had the money. A young bus attendant offers me a pillow, blanket, coffee, juice- do people really live like this? Of course they do, I know that they do, but after such a long day, I am struggling to take all of it in.
In San Salvador, my communication with my potential couchsurfers falls through and I spend the night in the bus station. Rain! I haven't seen rain fall in a long time, and it makes for a nice background to the mild chaos unfolding in the early hours at the bus station. It reminds me of how I'll miss taking cold showers in the middle of a brutally hot day. At 6am I board a bus direct to Mexico, missing Nicaragua already, but knowing I'll be back. That land of lakes and volcanos took bits and pieces of my heart at every turn, so of course I'll be back.
17 March 2008
Migración
Well, to wrap up her trip in Nicaragua, Abigail apparently wanted to spend several more hours involved in bureaucratic nonsense, because once again we found ourselves (this time three of us, Abby and I and our dear law student friend Carlos) in Managua, in a big office, waiting in line. We were lucky, though, that when we got to Managua, the hostel we planned on staying in was full and Carlos once again displayed his endless generosity by offering us beds in his family's house. Mom fed us again and Carlos helped us navigate the madness of Managua.
The immigration office is hot and jumbled and filled with confused and exhausted people, mostly Nicaraguans. Under the poorly translated sign that reads "Attention Foreign Visitors," we are relieved to find the line is very short. That is, until the stout clerk informs us that first Abby has to fill out a formulario, which must be bought at the cashier's window. The line for the cashier window wraps around itself many times in the sweltering and crowded building (it's so hot they even have an ice cream stand inside). Abby's face falls. Carlos sighs, and grins while softly singing the famous Carlos Mejía Godoy song, "Ay, Nicaragua, Nicaraguita." I am more or less accustomed to Latin American bureaucracy and, though I don't want to wait for another few hours in the trapped heat, I am quite fond of the company I am in and it's hard for anything to take a smile off my face these days.
After we escape with Abby's immigration exit stamp in hand, we realize that it is St. Patrick's day and we must absolutely have a beer. We knock back a few liters of Toña in a bar nearby to Carlos' house. And it was good that we drank, not only because of the relief it brought after the chaos of the morning, but also because the terrible Hollywood movie we saw afterwards in the air conditioned mall cinema could only have been tolerated with a healthy amount of alcohol.
The immigration office is hot and jumbled and filled with confused and exhausted people, mostly Nicaraguans. Under the poorly translated sign that reads "Attention Foreign Visitors," we are relieved to find the line is very short. That is, until the stout clerk informs us that first Abby has to fill out a formulario, which must be bought at the cashier's window. The line for the cashier window wraps around itself many times in the sweltering and crowded building (it's so hot they even have an ice cream stand inside). Abby's face falls. Carlos sighs, and grins while softly singing the famous Carlos Mejía Godoy song, "Ay, Nicaragua, Nicaraguita." I am more or less accustomed to Latin American bureaucracy and, though I don't want to wait for another few hours in the trapped heat, I am quite fond of the company I am in and it's hard for anything to take a smile off my face these days.
After we escape with Abby's immigration exit stamp in hand, we realize that it is St. Patrick's day and we must absolutely have a beer. We knock back a few liters of Toña in a bar nearby to Carlos' house. And it was good that we drank, not only because of the relief it brought after the chaos of the morning, but also because the terrible Hollywood movie we saw afterwards in the air conditioned mall cinema could only have been tolerated with a healthy amount of alcohol.
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