San Jose Costa Rica to Granada Nicaragua

When the boat stopped, I wrongly presumed that crossing the border would be the worst part of my journey. Waking up, gummy eyed and dehydrated, I could see the narrow cargo launch had been pulled over and that camouflaged men were waiting to come aboard. Around us the jungle seemed to simmer in the midday heat, the pea soupish river sliding slowly past, carrying its collection of black plastic bags and tour boats I knew not where.

I don’t know why I came back to Nicaragua. It wasn’t to “bag” another country; I’d already visited the state and seen its three biggest cities. It wasn’t to show off, Peru would have been the one for that and, as I was alone it wasn’t for the company. Two days after I had originally planned to leave I was woken at four by Andreas, my body angrily protesting both at the time and the presence of the four-dollar gin in my system. Hopping around in the gloom I was saved the bother of changing by the grubby jeans and tee shirt I had slept in for the past two days and was soon sneaking noisily from the room. An hour and a half later I stood in an empty bus concourse among a dozen shifty eyed Nicaraguans who were to be my companions to Los Chiles, the last town on the Costa Rican border.

I had chosen the Southern road to Nicaragua because most tourists pale from taking a river boat past rickety military checkpoints and as usual I wanted to be different. Unfortunately, I had planned out my trip the way I feel British generals must have planned out the battle of the Somme. I stood at a tiny wall map, moving my hand up massive expanses of green jungle and brown mountains, explaining how I hoped to be half way across the country by nightfall and yet not bothering to consult the guidebook. In the end it took this merry incompetence half a day to manifest itself and by the time I caught the bus and rode the boat across the boarder I thought I was doing really well.

It was a bright sunny day, the river was beautiful and small children were jumping of moss-clad trees into the water. I was still in the best of moods as we crossed the border and entered Lake Managua. The boat chugged up to a massive sprawl of decaying corrugated iron and grey concrete that appeared to be a small port town. As we entered a large ferry (the one I had intended to catch to Granada) slipped its moorings and headed out to sea trailing a thin line of smoke. Even then I wasn’t really upset, there would be other boats waiting to take me up the lake that disappeared into the smog to my left. As I exited the launch and clambered onto the immigrations services dock I could already smell the fine food waiting for me in Cordoba.

“four days”, the customs man holds up his grubby fingers to further emphasize a point I have trouble grasping. I have just discovered that, to catch the next ferry from the aforementioned grubby port I will have to wait in the infested hellhole for four days, subsiding on money that is inaccessible as the nearest ATM is on the other side of the country. Now thoroughly missing Tattie, Jamie and all other my lovely friends in the Tranquilo I ask if there is any other way to get to Granada. The man smiles and nods, “autobus” he grins in a slightly ominous manner.

Thirteen hours later and the bus ride continues like some daemon rollercoaster I have become locked onto. For the first few hours I tried to read but the excessive jolting makes my eyes skip every second word and I soon give up, deciding that the road conditions are marginally worse than in Cambodia. Sitting opposite me is a young man, a fellow refugee from the boat who wears the massive fake Rolex that seems to be the Nicaraguan national uniform. Jammed next to me in the seat are two giggly female students who find it very amusing that I cannot sit straight due to the size of my legs. Everyone seems really smiley and happy, (or they did for the first few hours) and the only person I am slightly concerned about is the mustachioed man with a cowboy hat and wrapped sack conspicuously containing a small rifle. Soon it will be my turn to sleep and I will exchange places with one of the girls and climb onto the bed of rice sacks lining the isle.

One hour after that I am jumping down from the yellow bus, pack on my back and no idea where I am. The city is not the one I remember, shuttered and dark as dogs creep through the shadows and crack whores chase me up the street, demanding either sex or something to eat. Finally avoiding them, I climb over large piles of rubble and reach Hostal Central to find it boarded up with a large For Sale sign tacked to the door. Luckily, as a drunk runs after me up the road, I find two happy policemen who chaperone me to the nearest hostel and, with hands on machetes, persuade the doorman to let me in free of charge.