The Road to Santa Marta, El Salvador

Victoria was full of dark young men in camouflage carrying M-16’s, lounging near the town square as they used their caps to keep fly’s away. I put my pack down, the soldiers looked at me and I looked at them, no one spoke. I was worried, had never been to Victoria in the light so wasn’t sure if the armies presence was something out of the ordinary. I looked around the town square, watching the locals queuing for busses, the shops selling beans and rice, a tiny market taking place under the arches of a colonial style building. Everything seemed normal, no one was noticeably anxious and so I sat down, read my book and ate some ice cream as I waited for a pick up truck for Santa Marta. After about two hours of wondering around and being stared at I was feeling really uneasy, keen to get to the village and find out at last whether they were expecting me or not. This last point was a big issue, in a town like Santa Marta there isn’t a hostel or even a guest house and I’ve yet to find anything resembling a restaurant. If I was turning up unannounced it might be almost impossible finding somewhere to stay and, being the rainy season, I could hardly camp outside. Realizing that I should have thought about this earlier I pushed all paranoiac thoughts from my head and returned to one of the worst books I have ever read, waiting for my ride.
A few hours later I was on the road again, pulling into Santa Marta aboard a clapped out pick-up in the middle of a thunderstorm. I thanked the driver for the lift, jumped into a sea of thick mud and trudged despondently over to the health center where I discovered Dr Perez was due back any minute. When he finally arrived he stopped at the doorway and looked at me with a half smile on his face, obviously my message hadn’t got through all the way to Santa Marta. Disconcerted now, I said hello in a slightly awkward manner and asked if there was any chance I could volunteer for a week. Never one to be put off by extraordinary circumstances Dr Perez smiled a toothy grin and, realizing that I didn’t even have a place to stay, said “first we will see some patients, then we will find you accommodation." Relieved but slightly taken aback I was soon seated at my usual place beside Doc P, taking notes and doing odd jobs as best I could. In the several hours I worked that day we saw dozens of patients, mostly children with various parasites.

Granada to Managua

I woke up in my massive chambers with the sun shining through the holes in the ceiling and beaten-up cars careening along the street outside. My head hurt horrifically and after grabbing an aspirin I discovered that I’d missed Arma’s insanely early departure to the Corn Islands and was now, at least temporarily alone. Still suffering from a combination of possible concussion and alcohol poisoning I packed my pack and jumped from the hostel to a speedy transit bus that would take me to Nicaragua’s capital, Managua. The plan was to go straight to the city, change for a chicken bus to Leon and see about getting to El Salvador tomorrow. If I could have ignored Managua I would have, I was apprehensive about going back there and for good reason. Mostly destroyed in a series of earthquakes and never rebuilt the city is a heap of concrete crisscrossed with the dark scars of highways, the sort of place where hordes of children follow you up the street for a dollar and a siren is never far away. Still apprehensive about traveling alone I slung the bag on the roof of the bus and clambered inside the small space, finding it full of dark passive faces.

As we whizzed quickly down the highway past the edge of lake Nicagua and out into a landscape of flat, dry planes punctuated with barbed fences and shabby settlements I felt at peace again. This is the real Central America for me, busses belching smoke as the conductor leans out of the window yelling the names of his stops, ‘Maaassssayyyyya, Massssssaaayyyya, Masssssssayyyyyaaaaa’ at siren-like volume. As we passed a pick-up truck, it’s small bed crowded with more than ten white shirted Nicaraguan men, as we dodged around an army truck filled with plastic chairs, I remembered why I loved traveling. There is something magical about leaning out of a bus window and watching such a foreign world drift by.

I was in luck on this particular bus ride because I happened to be sitting next to a very nice Dutch couple called Mathieu and Anchor, sitting with their Lonely Planet and working out a route to El Salvador. They’d traveled all the way from Carnival in Brazil and had the light, funny air of confidence that Arma had shown. As I’ve said I my original plan had been to go by chicken bus to Leon and then work my way up through Honduras straight to Managua but after five minutes I decided on traveling instead with my new friends by Tica Bus to somewhere in the south of El Salvador. When the bus stopped in Managua the three of us jumped down together and hefted our packs into the back of a cab in really good time, wading through the heat and almost visible pollution. From there we went careering off down a collection of fairly sordid streets and stopped in front of the Tica Bus headquarters where I bought a $25 dollar ticket straight to El Salvador, a trip of 15 hours leaving at the ungodly time of four AM. We also ended up staying at a hotel run by Tica Bus, the area around the terminal contained guesthouses of such dodgy quality and dubious security that they made the Tranquilo in San Jose seem like a five star resort.

After settling into a very clean three bed room with fan we caught another cab to “central” but instead of a plaza and church like in most Central American cities the center of Managua is a sprawl of expensive malls and hotels that clash horribly if you’ve been outside the town and seen the miles of slums and rubbish dumps. In a display of sudden weakness we went into the food court for McDonalds, cheesecake and fried chicken and the movies for a slice of Hollywood. In the corner of the galleria was a full sized fiberglass horse for children to ride on and it made me smile to see Nicaragua develop such weird ideas about what Americans liked to do in their spare time. About three hours later we emerged from Pirates of the Caribbean 3 feeling confused and cheated by the films bizarre surrealism and massive bevy of special affects that did not make up for the lack of concrete plot. Feeling pissed off the three of us skipped dinner and went home, settling down for an alcohol free night and falling straight asleep despite a bizarre man next door who snored like a pig rooting for truffles.

Ruined Hospital and Tree


Granada, Nicaragua

The room in the ruined hospital was dark, the only light coming from half collapsed windows high up in the decaying ceiling. A pigeon sits there, looking down at us standing in this dirty place full of abandoned medical records turning slowly into dust. Outside a herd of wind goats run carefully over the remains of a shrine to the Virgin Mary, her figurine long since gone. Standing as it is in the center of this field of rubble it seems to represent the state of many things in this amazing yet sad country. Turning to Arma I tell her, “when god’s gone, you know it’s got bad.”
Granada is to me the very heart of description, a place of innate vividness and color where the perfect photo is constantly riding past in the back of a donkey cart or sitting in the foul smelling market cutting steak for dinner. From the ruined hospital to the town square it’s alive and moving with a strange energy, looking up you can see the almost constant milky-white explosions of firecrackers thrown into the ether. Walking down tarpaulin lanes filled with closed up shops inside the Mercado Central you can buy iguanas and turtles, aviators and Playstation knock-offs. Through the streets there are massive religious parades, children beating drums and hitting those plonckity-plonk xylophone things. I like to stand by the side of the road and watch, looking at the life rolling past me even as the thunder crashes overhead in a flurry of tropical storms.
I showed Arma all this, we walked with camera clicking for hours. As the sun went down we ate pasta and drunk Coca-Colas and Cuba Libres at the open air bar outside the Bearded Monkey. Later a band played and I danced with Gringa gap year students and exchanged travel advice with backpackers heading south. There was a sense of fun in the bars, couples winding themselves around each other in Latin dance as those of us less supple nodded our heads in appreciation. If the night had ended there it would have been better, instead hours later I was dancing in Bar Canoes, a place by the water where the cows walk past and the palm trees sway in the wind.


Hospital Gate


Ruined Hospital



Roof top in Central Market


Limes



Shoes


The Nicaraguan equivalent of Tesco's


Exploring Corruption



The Wonders of New Glasses

San Jose to Granada

The last few days I spent in San Jose were fraught and stressful, I’d had my camera stolen in a bar and devoted the rest of the time to finding a new one. There are places in San Jose, near the infamous Marcado Borbon with its piles of produce and grubby shop holders, where you can buy the hundreds of digital cameras and camcorders stolen from tourists every day. This area has the reputation of being very dangerous and though I shop there for fresh fruit almost daily the thought of carrying massive wads of cash around didn’t appeal in the slightest. Luckily, after mooching about the hostel for a few hours I met André, a blonde South African surfer with a very strong accent who’d fallen foul of thieves and didn’t want to pay $300 for a new camera. ‘Alright Bru’ he smiled when I told him about the “Black Market”, ‘sounds great.’ The next day we took a taxi through the outskirts of the red-light district towards the market but became lodged in fearsome traffic jams. As Tico after Tico revved his engine, beeped his horn and became increasingly agitated André got talking to our driver with the help of my horrible translations:

Gringo’s: Ah, it’s very busy here!

Taxi Driver: @#*&ing busses, they clog up all the roads. (He gives a five-minute explanation of the entire San Jose traffic system complete with eloquent hand gestures.) Why are you going to Marcado Borbon anyway?

Gringo’s: (Bashfully) We had our camera’s stolen and we really need to buy new ones, do you know a shop?
Taxi Driver: See, that is the problem with tourists. You must hide your stuff like all Tico’s do, look… (he swerves across the road to show us his socks, explaining that he hides his wallet there.) A lot of Costa Rican’s rob tourists. Many of my friends do, but I am a taxi driver and all I do is drive my taxi. Hey, do you want any cocaine?

Gringo’s: (to each other) did he say… I think he… what??? (to Taxi Driver) we’re alright thanks!

Taxi Driver: (Pulling up at Marcado Borbon) Ok, watch out for thieves because they’re probably going to rob you here… bye!

The camera shops we found when we got out of the cab were bizarre, places selling mountains of mobile phones and foothills of welding equipment for some strange reason. After two hours of bartering we found what we were looking for and went back to the hostel where I met my friend Emma and took her to the movies.


Plaza Morazon, somewhere in the Red Light District


Sleazy market

This morning I caught the bus straight to Granada. We left San Jose as the sun was beginning to come up over the roofs of the 70’s era government buildings and the green dome of the national theatre. I’d been unable to find anyone traveling up north but the need to return to the road proper was making me antsy so at the last minute I forfeited my plans to travel with an English girl to the beach and took a taxi to the Ticabus headquarters instead. Nothing happened till the border, but there amid the fruit juice sellers and crowds, moneychangers and armed policemen I bumped into Arma. A 32 year old Dutch woman, she’d just finished working in Costa Rica and was heading north to Cancun, Mexico. We decided it was less lonely traveling together and for the rest of the bus ride we sat together as I pondered over a pile of $1 DVD’s I’d borrowed. Later we arrived in Granada, capital of Nicaragua’s growing tourist scene. The tiled pavements and crumbling colonial roofs are a delight to someone who’s been dealing with the 1984esq architecture of San Jose.


Rosie in San Jose

Arma in Granada

Last night I landed in Costa Rica, the plane touching down at Juan Santa Maria and the heavy door opening to tropical heat. I stood alone on the airport bus as it rattled it’s way to the terminal, disgorging groups of lost looking tourists who searched nervously for their bags and were met by cheerful tour guides. I alone stood near the baggage carousel and waited, looking around at posters tacked to the walls, some threatening to prosecute sex offenders and others promising to reward gringos with the best in the way of shining white hotels and tacky, palm thatched restaurants. Presently my Mum appeared, an amazing occurrence considering we’d flown from opposite sides of the world and still managed to arrive in San Jose within ten minutes of each other. After many hugs we grabbed our packs and headed for the exit where a large brass band was busy playing mariachi music in the underground car park.

This morning I woke to parrots hooting outside the red painted window of Hostel Tranquilo, reminding me of times I spent here last year. Most of the staff has changed and, because it’s off-season, there aren’t any backpackers sleeping on the floor and in hammocks by the reception yet it’s still the dirty pit of inequity I remember. There are the piles of cigarettes in bamboo ashtrays, wine bottles with oozing candles sprouting from them, red lamps hanging from the ceiling. We meet Penny here in her tiny room and Mum is amazed by the leopard-striped tiles in the bathroom and the beds that defy all scientific principles by refusing to collapse in a heap. For breakfast I commandeer a taxi that takes us speeding through the town, past Plaza Morazan with its grand bandstand and cast iron statue of Simon Bolivar and through the barrios to Marcado Borbon.

A sprawling maze of fruit shops and dirty Soda’s Mercado Borbon looks like a dingy Soviet subway system that just happens to sell piles of bananas. Damien, an old friend of mine once said of it, “Costa Rica exports all it’s best fruit, then all the grade #2 stuff gets sent to Mercado Central and what’s left over ends up in Mercado Borbon.” Whether this is true or not, what’s certain is that in this subterranean Aladdin’s cave you can by bags of watermelons, papaya’s, coconuts and bananas for a few quid. After getting as much as I can carry we jump into another taxi and high-tail it over to a bus station on the edge of town, a razor wire fortress of rebar gates that services the small mountain towns of the Tarazzu Valley. It was in San Marcos de Tarazzu that I lived for almost three months last year, carrying my machete and learning to pick coffee from the Robles family. It seems right to me that my first few days back in Costa Rica be spent there.

The ride back to the valley takes us three hours in the thick fog, our driver edging his way along a sheer ravine. I regret coming back at night, I don’t see enough to reminisce and because it’s rainy season the sky opens up just as the sun goes down. We arrive without incident in San Marcos however, though Penny is enthralled by the pastel colored dresses worn by the female Panamanian Indian migrant workers. Once off the bus I search the main street for a taxi that knows where the Vargas’s house is and we heap our bags in the back and clamber in, heading up a rocky path dotted with coffee farms.

‘Tonnnn’ yells Mama when I knock at her door, still unable to pronounce my name. She’s wearing a dressing gown and has obviously just woken up though it can’t have been later than seven. I’ve missed her a lot, this bustling little woman who coo’s over me and starts talking excitedly in very fast Spanish. Calin, her husband, comes to the door next and gives me a tremendous bear hug as he shows me to the guesthouse where I used to live. It takes about ten minutes for them to open the door before I can slide into my old bed and go to sleep and I actually remember when Prouty broke it a year before, the lock never working properly again.

Mercado Borbon


The Robles Family

Elian in his families fields

Atlanta, Virginia

In almost an hour and a half I will be leaving for Central America for the sixth time since I first rolled across the Mexican boarder in a Shackleton bus, leaning out the window as we left a trail of dust in our wake. I remember fences made of dilapidated car doors, chipped shrines of the Virgin Mary clinging to the roadside, mariachi bands in dusty squares, cowboy hat wearing men driving pickups full of cows. Now though I sit here at my gate in Atlanta’s airport and watch the Latino’s begin to congregate beside me, thinking that I’m more at ease than I have been for weeks. A few hours ago I was in Boston and, though my friends there are some of the dearest I will ever have, the pressures of work had reached a painful breaking point of sleepless nights that I knew I must escape.

Soon I will be in Central America, backpacking my way across an area of juxtaposition; waterfalls, volcanos and beaches set against civil strife, poverty and a slight sheen of tropical dirtiness and decay that is becoming increasingly comforting to me the more I travel. Daringly I have only bought a one-way ticket to Costa Rica and yet, within eight weeks, I plan to arrive dirty and tired back in Boston having followed a route I have not even planned. For the first three weeks I will be traveling with mum and her friend Penny through Costa Rica then I’m off up North alone, only dust, footprints and the odd pair of socks left behind in my wake.

So Today as I sit here in this mammoth airport with it’s flocks of milling Americans I am making a commitment, three actually, never an easy thing for me at the best of times and under my present circumstances probably doomed to dormancy.
The first is that I will explore my first full continent this trip, Belize, Honduras and Panama my final targets in this goal that has spanned a long time. The second is that I shall make it all the way to Boston by any means possible and the third; however hostile the terrain gets, I shall write an entry in my blog for every day that I’m backpacking.