About 5 hours into my Costa Rica-Nicaragua bus ride, I noticed that our bus was slowing down. We coasted past dozens of idling semi trucks, and I assumed that we were coming up to the border. When I saw the other passengers start fiddling with their passports, I knew that they thought the same.
We pulled up next to the type of 1984 dictator-chic type of building that could only be a Latin American border post. But I was still guessing at this point, since the building was unmarked, and we hadn't heard so much as a syllable of instruction from our driver. But as soon as the bus doors swung open, everyone bounded from their seats, and I assumed that I should do the same.
Immediately after exiting the bus, I had a huge stack of cash shoved in my face. "Cambio? Cambio?" Alright. This is definitely the border.
I walked into the building, and I went straight for the "Entrada" line. But it didn't take me long to realize that I was waiting in line to enter Costa Rica. I needed to be in the "Salida (exit)" line. I had forgotten that this region's governments were just as concerned about their locals fleeing as they were about tourists entering. I was in the Costa Rican border building, and I had to "check out" with them before I set foot in Nicaragua.
(Editor's Note: Most Latin Americans are no longer living in the extreme fear and poverty that they were during the 70s and 80s, and aren't really interested in fleeing anymore. However, the strict exit requirements seem to have stuck around.)
So I moved over to the Salida line, and got my exit stamp from Costa Rica. But I wasn't sure about where to head next (or about any step in this process, for that matter).
(Well, what do we have here! As I'm sitting on the bus, writing about the Costa Rica stop in my journal, the driver just passed through the bus, asking for everybody's passports. As you know, relinquishing control of your passport is international travel taboo number 1, but I don't appear to have much of a choice. I hear a local woman arguing with the driver in the back of the bus, and another one just got escorted off, so they obviously aren't messing around. Ok, I just passed it off; if I never make it back, you know why.)
Where was I?
(Pause number 2: The driver just announced some instructions. Wow, that's some fast español, but I think I got it!)
Alright, back in Costa Rica, I surreptitiously attached myself to someone that I recognized from the bus, and made it back in one piece.
We drove a few hundred yards, and the bus slowed down again. This is when the bus driver did his whole passport seizure and unintelligible instructions bit, so we're all caught up with the story.
Now, for a bit of background. I never, ever, ever check bags. Especially when I know that I'll be crossing borders. I can just grab my backpack and breeze through customs while everyone else is retrieving their bags. However, I really needed to sleep, and I thought that the extra legroom would be nice. Besides, I hardly have anything with me on this trip. (Aimee's already questioned if I even brought a change of clothes.) So after a pretty lengthy inner monologue at the bus station, I checked my bag. But I shouldn't have.
As soon as we pulled into the Nicaraguan border station, everyone went to the side of the bus and began digging through the bags to find theirs. I didn't joint the fray, but I did use my height to make sure that there weren't any unwelcome additions or subtractions from my bag.
As the crowd started to clear out, I didn't see my bag, and I got a little nervous. As it turned out, my bag was wedged in the support beams under the bus, and never made it out into the luggage pile. Of course.
By the point that I crawled out of the bus' undercarriage (after my brief backpack search), most people were already in the customs line, and I had to wait at the back. It did give me a chance to look around and get my bearings, though.
Everyone was waiting in line to approach a single table that had a border agent and a miniature stop light. As each person approached the table, they would press a button on the table, and the light would turn either red or green. Red means that you'll be subjected to a full on, open bag customs inspection, and green means that you'll walk.
When it was my turn to face destiny, the customs agent performed one of my favorite travel idiosyncrasies: the mixed-language instructions. He looked at me, took my customs declaration (which said where I'm from), and said in English, "push".
AHHH!!!!! If I've even survived up until this point, I speak Spanish!!!
But maybe after 6 hours of holding down my vomit (rough night + early wake up + bumpy roads)--and stumbling my way though two hours of international border crossings--I'm just a bit cranky. It was a nice gesture, I suppose...
The light turned green, by the way.
