I just had a post-trip data dump, and it included some pretty good stories, so you should scroll down a few posts and work your way back up.
But despite what you're about to read, I did make it back home in one piece.
I loved everything about Nicaragua, the land, the people, the food, and the rum. Especially the rum. If I didn't have a few domestic adventures to take care of first, I'd go back in a second.
But it is always nice to be home.
We'll pick this back up soon. I'm hoping for May, but that's all up to Home Depot Credit Services.
See you later!
Myles
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Really?!
Travel gods, what have I done to anger thee?
My last three posts of the trip should have been about coffee, rum, and air conditioned hotel beds. Instead, they’ve been about a car accident, protest diarrhea, and this:
The bus ride back to Costa Rica was pretty uneventful (other than the usual border shenanigans).
On our way back to downtown San Jose, we passed the airport that I would be flying out of the next day. However, the airport hotels are always expensive, so I just stayed on the bus until were more in the heart of the city. That was a mistake.
I had met a guy on the bus who knew of a good hostel, so we made plans to share a cab there after the bus ride. Once we arrived, we found ourselves a nice driver and told him where we were heading.
[A note on "nice": he didn't reset the meter when we got in the cab, so there was a baseline charge that we shouldn't have had to pay. I noticed this right away, since the first thing I do in a foreign cab is find out what the base rate is, and make sure that I see it at the beginning of every ride (in the few cabs the even have meters). I pointed this surcharge out (somewhat curtly), and he corrected it right away. "Oh, oops, I forgot." But that common scam is more the function of his profession, and doesn't really reflect on his "niceness".]
But since he actually was a pretty nice guy, we chatted for most of the ride. And right before he dropped us off at the hostel, he casually mentioned that there was going to be a public transportation strike the following day. No cabs, no buses, no nothing.
"What?!"
So after a little bit of mental option-weighing, I realized that I had to get to the airport that night. So we dropped of my 5-minute friend at the hostel, and I told our driver to keep on driving!
And drive he did, the final fare to the airport was almost $60, which is so much money down here! I really should have hopped off the bus at the airport.
The driver called around to a few hotels, to try to find me a place. I'm usually weary of this move, since the cab drivers take people to hotels that pay them a cut, and the hotels pad their rates, accordingly. However, the recent Costa Rican earthquake destroyed a lot of the tourist hotels in the area of the quake, so all of their visitors were now staying near the airport, waiting for their flights home. Of course.
I knew that I'd have a hard time finding a place, since almost every hotel was booked solid, and I was in no mood to spend another night sleeping in an airport. So I let my driver find me a place, and the price wasn't terrible. (It was $40, and as predicted, my driver walked me up to the hotel "to use the bathroom", and awkwardly waited for me to go to my room so that he could collect his cut.) $40 should have bought me a pretty nice place down here--and this place was only a click and a half above a roach motel--but my room had a bathroom and a TV, and I couldn't have been happier.
M
My last three posts of the trip should have been about coffee, rum, and air conditioned hotel beds. Instead, they’ve been about a car accident, protest diarrhea, and this:
The bus ride back to Costa Rica was pretty uneventful (other than the usual border shenanigans).
On our way back to downtown San Jose, we passed the airport that I would be flying out of the next day. However, the airport hotels are always expensive, so I just stayed on the bus until were more in the heart of the city. That was a mistake.
I had met a guy on the bus who knew of a good hostel, so we made plans to share a cab there after the bus ride. Once we arrived, we found ourselves a nice driver and told him where we were heading.
[A note on "nice": he didn't reset the meter when we got in the cab, so there was a baseline charge that we shouldn't have had to pay. I noticed this right away, since the first thing I do in a foreign cab is find out what the base rate is, and make sure that I see it at the beginning of every ride (in the few cabs the even have meters). I pointed this surcharge out (somewhat curtly), and he corrected it right away. "Oh, oops, I forgot." But that common scam is more the function of his profession, and doesn't really reflect on his "niceness".]
But since he actually was a pretty nice guy, we chatted for most of the ride. And right before he dropped us off at the hostel, he casually mentioned that there was going to be a public transportation strike the following day. No cabs, no buses, no nothing.
"What?!"
So after a little bit of mental option-weighing, I realized that I had to get to the airport that night. So we dropped of my 5-minute friend at the hostel, and I told our driver to keep on driving!
And drive he did, the final fare to the airport was almost $60, which is so much money down here! I really should have hopped off the bus at the airport.
The driver called around to a few hotels, to try to find me a place. I'm usually weary of this move, since the cab drivers take people to hotels that pay them a cut, and the hotels pad their rates, accordingly. However, the recent Costa Rican earthquake destroyed a lot of the tourist hotels in the area of the quake, so all of their visitors were now staying near the airport, waiting for their flights home. Of course.
I knew that I'd have a hard time finding a place, since almost every hotel was booked solid, and I was in no mood to spend another night sleeping in an airport. So I let my driver find me a place, and the price wasn't terrible. (It was $40, and as predicted, my driver walked me up to the hotel "to use the bathroom", and awkwardly waited for me to go to my room so that he could collect his cut.) $40 should have bought me a pretty nice place down here--and this place was only a click and a half above a roach motel--but my room had a bathroom and a TV, and I couldn't have been happier.
M
What's Spanish for Anti-Diarrheals?
Looks like I picked the wrong day to quit drinking.
(Sorry Mom, it's only an Airplane reference.)
Turns out that, despite her usual good humor, Aimee wasn’t kidding about the diarrhea.
Ugh.
I used to have a certain sense of pride that I seemed impervious to the microbes that lurk in the world’s street food. (Except, perhaps not surprisingly, the food in New Jersey; a bad plate of paella there laid my ass out so bad that I had to go the hospital!)
But that pride is no more.
Aimee and I went out with her host sister for a nice goodbye dinner near San Isidro.
Here we are, in happier times.
I need to shave.
I don’t know if it was from the chicken or the salad, but it was viral and it sucked. I woke up the next morning with all of Montezuma’s fury exploding in my intestines. Apparently he was pretty pissed off about the conquest of Nicaragua, too.
Aimee (whose sainthood is currently under review by the Vatican) spent her last morning in San Isidro chasing me down Gatorade and anti-diarrheals.
(I’m cramping up just thinking about that day, so I’m going to tell a quick sidebar story to regain my composure.)
I hate shopping. I don’t like spending money on crap that I don’t need, and I especially don’t like spending it on things that I already have. Clothing fits into both categories, and usually draws considerable ire out of me. So when Aimee and I stopped at a giant market on our way back from San Juan del Sur, I was more interested in the sights than the stuff. But Aimee told me that she liked the way guys look in a particular type of local shirt. So, pursuant to Boyfriend Code 38, section 17, I had no choice but to buy one. I was less than thrilled. However, when I wore it around San Isidro, I received an unexpectedly large amount of compliments. Some people even noted how “doctorly” I looked. “Why thank you. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell Aimee all along!”
So I meekly proposed that we head back to the market and buy some more. With mock-incredulity (emphasis on incredulity), Aimee agreed to take me there on our way to Managua. Needless to say, the current conditions required us to scrap those plans.
(And we’re back)
Since we were both leaving Nicaragua in the morning, we wanted to be in Managua the night before. That way, we’d have plenty of cushion, in case something came up (and it did, we’ll get to that in a second).
Every alternating round of diarrhea and vomit pushed back our departure time. But by 3:00 in the afternoon, I was ready to brave the two hour bus ride. (And remember, the bus drivers don’t stop for anything.) However, we didn’t think that we’d make it to the San Isidro bus stop in time for the 3:15 bus. But that was fine, since the 3:45 bus was an express, and would get us there even faster. (Enter irony, stage right.)
We ended up catching the bus without incident, and everything appeared to be going smoothly for the first hour. However, about the time that my poop drugs started wearing off, our bus got stuck in a traffic jam. We were about twenty minutes outside of Managua, and there should have been about 30 minutes left in our trip. Ha.
After about 10-15 minutes without moving, our driver shut off the engine, and got out to look around. We didn’t see him again for an hour.
When he came back, we overheard the driver talking with his helpers. The Spanish word for “tanker” is very similar to the one for “strike”, so we weren’t sure if we were waiting for a spill to be cleaned, or for an uprising to be quelled. Either way, we knew that we weren’t going to get moving any time soon.
By this point, some of the passengers had gotten out to stretch their legs. However, I reasoned that the severe muscle cramps that I was getting wouldn’t be as bad as the killer headache and nausea that I got every time I moved. Besides, my downtown muscles are only so strong, and any movement could have put their hold in jeopardy.
But time (and bowels) kept moving, and our bus was going nowhere. First came 5:00, the 6:00, then the sun went down, then 7:00, then, “Oh, God.”
I had been squirming in the bus for quite a while, and I knew what had to be done. I asked Aimee for the flashlight, and ventured off into the brush. (The tree that I had selected sure looked a lot bigger from the bus, but I was in no mood to keep searching.) So I dropped my shorts and let the magic happen.
Ahh…
Feeling newly revived, I headed back to the bus. Since I had already ejected every last calorie that I had in my body, I was starting to get painfully hungry. Unfortunately, the only food that we had between the two of us was a few sticks of gum. We had only packed for a two hour bus ride, not a three hour tour. But that was probably for the best, since I was having a hard time keeping anything down. In fact, I’d be getting back up in about an hour to go vomit out any air that was still in my belly.
By this point, it was about 10 or 11, and there were no signs of movement. I was getting pretty sleepy, but our bed choices were bleak. I’m about 3 sizes too large to get comfortable in the bus seats, and who knew what kinds of lovely tropical insects lurked in the bushes alongside the road. So I took advantage of the situation to fulfill a dream that I’ve had ever since I was young boy. I slept under a truck on the Pan-American Highway.
And as not-fun as that may sound to you now, it was even less fun in real life. So I found myself back on the bus pretty quickly, playing bucket seat twister to get comfortable.
I did finally manage to fall asleep, and around 3:00 AM, I woke up to one of the greatest sights that I have ever seen.
This nearly indecipherable image is of a stream of cars heading the opposite direction, along the frontage, um, rock path. We had seen a few individual cars try to make the journey past the roadblock, but until then, never more than one or two per hour. The road was clearing!
During our wait, I had been curious about how this was all going to play out, since some impatient bus drivers had clogged the opposite lane, in an apparent attempt to get around the roadblock that they knew they couldn’t get around. But once the cars and small vehicles had crossed over onto the path, there was enough room for the buses to slide past one another.
As it turns out, the roadblock did actually turn out to be a protest. Sandinista farmers had blocked the road with a pile of flaming tires, in opposition to the high interest rates that they have to pay on their microfinance loans. While I’m a little weary of the corruption espoused by their leader, Daniel Ortega, I really do sympathize with the farmers. They’ve been drawing the political short straws in Nicaragua for decades. And we all know that banks don’t set their interest rates out of any sense of charity. Besides, I witnessed plenty of desperation in Nicaragua, and the farmers didn’t have many options. It’s not like there’s a Managua chapter of the Better Business Bureau.
But I digress, this story’s about poop, not politics.
We ended up arriving in Managua around 4:15 in the morning, which is about the time that we should have woken up from a nice long slumber. So we went straight to the airport and took full advantage of their facilities. Particularly the ones made out of porcelain.
Aimee was flying out that morning, but I still had to catch a bus back to Costa Rica. Of course. So we said our goodbyes, and I took a cab to the bus station. After a little confusion at the ticket counter (standard check-in procedure), I was comfortably on board. And despite the nightmares of roadblock-sized diarrhea, I’ve never slept so soundly.
(Sorry Mom, it's only an Airplane reference.)
Turns out that, despite her usual good humor, Aimee wasn’t kidding about the diarrhea.
Ugh.
I used to have a certain sense of pride that I seemed impervious to the microbes that lurk in the world’s street food. (Except, perhaps not surprisingly, the food in New Jersey; a bad plate of paella there laid my ass out so bad that I had to go the hospital!)
But that pride is no more.
Aimee and I went out with her host sister for a nice goodbye dinner near San Isidro.
Here we are, in happier times.
I need to shave.
I don’t know if it was from the chicken or the salad, but it was viral and it sucked. I woke up the next morning with all of Montezuma’s fury exploding in my intestines. Apparently he was pretty pissed off about the conquest of Nicaragua, too.
Aimee (whose sainthood is currently under review by the Vatican) spent her last morning in San Isidro chasing me down Gatorade and anti-diarrheals.
(I’m cramping up just thinking about that day, so I’m going to tell a quick sidebar story to regain my composure.)
I hate shopping. I don’t like spending money on crap that I don’t need, and I especially don’t like spending it on things that I already have. Clothing fits into both categories, and usually draws considerable ire out of me. So when Aimee and I stopped at a giant market on our way back from San Juan del Sur, I was more interested in the sights than the stuff. But Aimee told me that she liked the way guys look in a particular type of local shirt. So, pursuant to Boyfriend Code 38, section 17, I had no choice but to buy one. I was less than thrilled. However, when I wore it around San Isidro, I received an unexpectedly large amount of compliments. Some people even noted how “doctorly” I looked. “Why thank you. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell Aimee all along!”
So I meekly proposed that we head back to the market and buy some more. With mock-incredulity (emphasis on incredulity), Aimee agreed to take me there on our way to Managua. Needless to say, the current conditions required us to scrap those plans.
(And we’re back)
Since we were both leaving Nicaragua in the morning, we wanted to be in Managua the night before. That way, we’d have plenty of cushion, in case something came up (and it did, we’ll get to that in a second).
Every alternating round of diarrhea and vomit pushed back our departure time. But by 3:00 in the afternoon, I was ready to brave the two hour bus ride. (And remember, the bus drivers don’t stop for anything.) However, we didn’t think that we’d make it to the San Isidro bus stop in time for the 3:15 bus. But that was fine, since the 3:45 bus was an express, and would get us there even faster. (Enter irony, stage right.)
We ended up catching the bus without incident, and everything appeared to be going smoothly for the first hour. However, about the time that my poop drugs started wearing off, our bus got stuck in a traffic jam. We were about twenty minutes outside of Managua, and there should have been about 30 minutes left in our trip. Ha.
After about 10-15 minutes without moving, our driver shut off the engine, and got out to look around. We didn’t see him again for an hour.
When he came back, we overheard the driver talking with his helpers. The Spanish word for “tanker” is very similar to the one for “strike”, so we weren’t sure if we were waiting for a spill to be cleaned, or for an uprising to be quelled. Either way, we knew that we weren’t going to get moving any time soon.
By this point, some of the passengers had gotten out to stretch their legs. However, I reasoned that the severe muscle cramps that I was getting wouldn’t be as bad as the killer headache and nausea that I got every time I moved. Besides, my downtown muscles are only so strong, and any movement could have put their hold in jeopardy.
But time (and bowels) kept moving, and our bus was going nowhere. First came 5:00, the 6:00, then the sun went down, then 7:00, then, “Oh, God.”
I had been squirming in the bus for quite a while, and I knew what had to be done. I asked Aimee for the flashlight, and ventured off into the brush. (The tree that I had selected sure looked a lot bigger from the bus, but I was in no mood to keep searching.) So I dropped my shorts and let the magic happen.
Ahh…
Feeling newly revived, I headed back to the bus. Since I had already ejected every last calorie that I had in my body, I was starting to get painfully hungry. Unfortunately, the only food that we had between the two of us was a few sticks of gum. We had only packed for a two hour bus ride, not a three hour tour. But that was probably for the best, since I was having a hard time keeping anything down. In fact, I’d be getting back up in about an hour to go vomit out any air that was still in my belly.
By this point, it was about 10 or 11, and there were no signs of movement. I was getting pretty sleepy, but our bed choices were bleak. I’m about 3 sizes too large to get comfortable in the bus seats, and who knew what kinds of lovely tropical insects lurked in the bushes alongside the road. So I took advantage of the situation to fulfill a dream that I’ve had ever since I was young boy. I slept under a truck on the Pan-American Highway.
And as not-fun as that may sound to you now, it was even less fun in real life. So I found myself back on the bus pretty quickly, playing bucket seat twister to get comfortable.
I did finally manage to fall asleep, and around 3:00 AM, I woke up to one of the greatest sights that I have ever seen.
This nearly indecipherable image is of a stream of cars heading the opposite direction, along the frontage, um, rock path. We had seen a few individual cars try to make the journey past the roadblock, but until then, never more than one or two per hour. The road was clearing!
During our wait, I had been curious about how this was all going to play out, since some impatient bus drivers had clogged the opposite lane, in an apparent attempt to get around the roadblock that they knew they couldn’t get around. But once the cars and small vehicles had crossed over onto the path, there was enough room for the buses to slide past one another.
As it turns out, the roadblock did actually turn out to be a protest. Sandinista farmers had blocked the road with a pile of flaming tires, in opposition to the high interest rates that they have to pay on their microfinance loans. While I’m a little weary of the corruption espoused by their leader, Daniel Ortega, I really do sympathize with the farmers. They’ve been drawing the political short straws in Nicaragua for decades. And we all know that banks don’t set their interest rates out of any sense of charity. Besides, I witnessed plenty of desperation in Nicaragua, and the farmers didn’t have many options. It’s not like there’s a Managua chapter of the Better Business Bureau.
Granted, I was having a hard time maintaining my sympathy at 3am, but looking back, I am pretty impressed with the farmers’ resourcefulness. They shut the country down for a day, and really brought attention to their cause. Unfortunately, my bowels were caught in the crossfire, but that’s something that I can live with!
But I digress, this story’s about poop, not politics.
We ended up arriving in Managua around 4:15 in the morning, which is about the time that we should have woken up from a nice long slumber. So we went straight to the airport and took full advantage of their facilities. Particularly the ones made out of porcelain.
Aimee was flying out that morning, but I still had to catch a bus back to Costa Rica. Of course. So we said our goodbyes, and I took a cab to the bus station. After a little confusion at the ticket counter (standard check-in procedure), I was comfortably on board. And despite the nightmares of roadblock-sized diarrhea, I’ve never slept so soundly.
Crash
Well, we had been planning to take a side trip to Jinotega, the coffee capital of Nicaragua. Instead, we went to the police station.
Someone please pick my mom up off the floor.
Let me start from the beginning. Aimee, Mayela, and I were planning on getting up early and driving (in Mayela's car) to Jinotega. Since it grows some of the best coffee in the world, it naturally has some pretty good breakfast restaurants. So we didn't bother to eat anything that morning; we just hopped in the car around 8. However, just outside of San Isidro, we started to get pretty hungry. So we pulled into a roadside market in the nearby town of Sebaco.
The roadside market is actually more of a road-on market. Dozens of produce vendors line both sides of the Pan-American Highway, and sell food to the passing motorists.
So we stopped. On the highway. The Pan-American Highway. To buy oranges.
Just after we paid, Mayela pulled out of the stall (she had parked about halfway across the curbside lane line). However, at the same time, a 20 foot flatbed truck came screaming down the road in the opposite direction. In a vain attempt to avoid the bicycle-taxi in his lane, the driver crossed the yellow line, and brought the cab of his truck breathlessly close to our car.
I've been in dozens of near-crashes out here, and I've always been amazed at how well the local drivers can sneak their cars/trucks/buses past seemingly impassible obstacles. So, as scary as our fly-by was, it seemed to be just another Nicaraguan near-miss.
However, the truck did not stop with the cab. As the rest of the truck passed us, we noticed the rear axle getting closer and closer to us (and remember, we were already halfway off the road). From my seat in the rear of the car, I couldn't see much, but both Mayela and Aimee let out two little shrieks as they saw what I didn't. The rear axle had been getting closer and closer, and the back of the truck was clearly going to hit us. Before we could react (this all happened very quickly; the truck was flying), we heard a chilling *thunk* followed by a pretty painful metal-on-metal scraping.
There goes the coffee.
After we realized what had happened, Mayela started grumbling something in Spanish. I couldn't translate the words, but I still had a pretty good understanding of what she was saying.
Aimee got out of the car, assuming that the driver would stop, but of course, he didn't. When Mayela saw the lack of brake lights, she spun the car around. Aimee told us to forget about her and just go!
This put me in a bit of a quandary. Aimee was about to become a lone tourist in a probably safe, but busy market. So I was caught between my boyfriendly duty to stay with her, and my big-guy duty to go act as some muscle in the confrontation that Mayela was itching for.
But with Aimee quickly in the rear view mirror, and Mayela chasing the truck down the Pan-Am, I didn't have much time to make that decision.
So I put on my seat belt, I looked around, and I tried to figure out what the hell just happened.
Mayela quickly caught up with the truck (a bit too quickly for my taste, but I understood her lead-footedness). She pulled behind it, honked her horn, and flashed her lights, The driver paid no attention. So Mayela pulled alongside the truck (in the opposite lane) and repeated the maneuver. And I pooped myself a little. Then she pulled in front of the truck, and forced a slowdown.
Mayela was looking ahead during all of this, so she didn't notice that the truck had pulled off the road while she was ahead of it. I needed to tell her, but I had just realized a pretty important lesson. Adrenaline is an extremely potent Spanish blocker.
I managed to grunt out a few syllables to get her attention. Even though I couldn't come close to enunciating what had happened, I did manage to point to where the truck had pulled in to.
"Good job, Lassie, now take us to where little Timmy fell down."
So Mayela performed her second mach-7 u-turn across both lanes of the Pan-Am, and I performed my second pants-pooping.
We pulled into the business that the truck had parked in. Again, my translation juices we're a little blocked up, but I could tell that the driver was feigning surprise at the whole ordeal. "Oh, I hit you at 40 miles an hour?" "Oh, you've been following me for the last 3 miles?" When he realized that this tactic was getting him nowhere, he shifted gears. "Oh, that's just a little scratch." (Her door had been ripped into, and would no longer open. "Just a little scratch," indeed.)
I could tell that Mayela was trying to get him to go to the police station, but he wanted no part of that. So in my best eye-glare Spanish (still no luck with the words), I said, "yeah, punk!"
But before I had any chance to gauge the situation (or notice the gun that we later found out he was carrying), he got in the car. So I assumed that my intimidating mute-moron impersonation had worked, and we were going to the police station. Or he was just cutting his losses and stealing the car.
Turns out it was the former.
So I got in the back seat for one of the more awkward car rides that I've been on. When Mayela pulled into the police "station" (a few rooms in a converted home), I happened to look inside the one police car in front of the building. It was pulling out, and guess who was in the back? None other than our abandoned produce shopper, Aimee!
She told us that after a brief "so...now what?" moment, one of the produce vendors encouraged her to go to the police station. She got a ride there during our little adventure with the truck driver, and was in the middle of leading the police back to the crash site.
Aimee claims that she had suffered the same linguistic paralysis that I did, but I'm skeptical. Had I been in that position, I wouldn't have been able to muster an "hola", let alone describe a crime scene. Impressive.
Mayela, surprisingly composed, described to the police what had happened. The truck driver tossed in his two cents, and we went back to the crash site. Mayela parked her car where it was during the collision, and the police shut down the freeway to take measurements. This created a bit of a spectacle.
After the police were satisfied with their information, we all went back to the station, and Mayela probably filled out some forms and gave some statements. I have absolutely no idea, though, since I was stuck on car-watch duty while the girls went in and spoke with the police. I really couldn't contribute much more than being a warm body that could stand next to an automobile. I must have been sick on the day that we went over car crashes in Spanish class. I had nothing.
A few hours later, things seemed to be settling down. However, the police would not give Mayela a copy of the statement. She really wanted one, though, since there was a larger-than-you'd-think chance that the truck driver would just come back to the police station that night, and pay off the cops to "forget" to file their report.
But she eventually relented, and we went back home. I don't know if I've mentioned this yet, but Mayela had recently won her town's election for the position of vice-mayor, so she had a little bit of clout at the police station. There may actually be a chance that this all plays out fairly. In addition, the truck driver happened to have insurance, which is apparently a rare phenomenon here.
We probably won't know how things work out for a few weeks, but I'm sure it'll be interesting!
Someone please pick my mom up off the floor.
Let me start from the beginning. Aimee, Mayela, and I were planning on getting up early and driving (in Mayela's car) to Jinotega. Since it grows some of the best coffee in the world, it naturally has some pretty good breakfast restaurants. So we didn't bother to eat anything that morning; we just hopped in the car around 8. However, just outside of San Isidro, we started to get pretty hungry. So we pulled into a roadside market in the nearby town of Sebaco.
The roadside market is actually more of a road-on market. Dozens of produce vendors line both sides of the Pan-American Highway, and sell food to the passing motorists.
So we stopped. On the highway. The Pan-American Highway. To buy oranges.
Just after we paid, Mayela pulled out of the stall (she had parked about halfway across the curbside lane line). However, at the same time, a 20 foot flatbed truck came screaming down the road in the opposite direction. In a vain attempt to avoid the bicycle-taxi in his lane, the driver crossed the yellow line, and brought the cab of his truck breathlessly close to our car.
I've been in dozens of near-crashes out here, and I've always been amazed at how well the local drivers can sneak their cars/trucks/buses past seemingly impassible obstacles. So, as scary as our fly-by was, it seemed to be just another Nicaraguan near-miss.
However, the truck did not stop with the cab. As the rest of the truck passed us, we noticed the rear axle getting closer and closer to us (and remember, we were already halfway off the road). From my seat in the rear of the car, I couldn't see much, but both Mayela and Aimee let out two little shrieks as they saw what I didn't. The rear axle had been getting closer and closer, and the back of the truck was clearly going to hit us. Before we could react (this all happened very quickly; the truck was flying), we heard a chilling *thunk* followed by a pretty painful metal-on-metal scraping.
There goes the coffee.
After we realized what had happened, Mayela started grumbling something in Spanish. I couldn't translate the words, but I still had a pretty good understanding of what she was saying.
Aimee got out of the car, assuming that the driver would stop, but of course, he didn't. When Mayela saw the lack of brake lights, she spun the car around. Aimee told us to forget about her and just go!
This put me in a bit of a quandary. Aimee was about to become a lone tourist in a probably safe, but busy market. So I was caught between my boyfriendly duty to stay with her, and my big-guy duty to go act as some muscle in the confrontation that Mayela was itching for.
But with Aimee quickly in the rear view mirror, and Mayela chasing the truck down the Pan-Am, I didn't have much time to make that decision.
So I put on my seat belt, I looked around, and I tried to figure out what the hell just happened.
Mayela quickly caught up with the truck (a bit too quickly for my taste, but I understood her lead-footedness). She pulled behind it, honked her horn, and flashed her lights, The driver paid no attention. So Mayela pulled alongside the truck (in the opposite lane) and repeated the maneuver. And I pooped myself a little. Then she pulled in front of the truck, and forced a slowdown.
Mayela was looking ahead during all of this, so she didn't notice that the truck had pulled off the road while she was ahead of it. I needed to tell her, but I had just realized a pretty important lesson. Adrenaline is an extremely potent Spanish blocker.
I managed to grunt out a few syllables to get her attention. Even though I couldn't come close to enunciating what had happened, I did manage to point to where the truck had pulled in to.
"Good job, Lassie, now take us to where little Timmy fell down."
So Mayela performed her second mach-7 u-turn across both lanes of the Pan-Am, and I performed my second pants-pooping.
We pulled into the business that the truck had parked in. Again, my translation juices we're a little blocked up, but I could tell that the driver was feigning surprise at the whole ordeal. "Oh, I hit you at 40 miles an hour?" "Oh, you've been following me for the last 3 miles?" When he realized that this tactic was getting him nowhere, he shifted gears. "Oh, that's just a little scratch." (Her door had been ripped into, and would no longer open. "Just a little scratch," indeed.)
I could tell that Mayela was trying to get him to go to the police station, but he wanted no part of that. So in my best eye-glare Spanish (still no luck with the words), I said, "yeah, punk!"
But before I had any chance to gauge the situation (or notice the gun that we later found out he was carrying), he got in the car. So I assumed that my intimidating mute-moron impersonation had worked, and we were going to the police station. Or he was just cutting his losses and stealing the car.
Turns out it was the former.
So I got in the back seat for one of the more awkward car rides that I've been on. When Mayela pulled into the police "station" (a few rooms in a converted home), I happened to look inside the one police car in front of the building. It was pulling out, and guess who was in the back? None other than our abandoned produce shopper, Aimee!
She told us that after a brief "so...now what?" moment, one of the produce vendors encouraged her to go to the police station. She got a ride there during our little adventure with the truck driver, and was in the middle of leading the police back to the crash site.
Aimee claims that she had suffered the same linguistic paralysis that I did, but I'm skeptical. Had I been in that position, I wouldn't have been able to muster an "hola", let alone describe a crime scene. Impressive.
Mayela, surprisingly composed, described to the police what had happened. The truck driver tossed in his two cents, and we went back to the crash site. Mayela parked her car where it was during the collision, and the police shut down the freeway to take measurements. This created a bit of a spectacle.
After the police were satisfied with their information, we all went back to the station, and Mayela probably filled out some forms and gave some statements. I have absolutely no idea, though, since I was stuck on car-watch duty while the girls went in and spoke with the police. I really couldn't contribute much more than being a warm body that could stand next to an automobile. I must have been sick on the day that we went over car crashes in Spanish class. I had nothing.
A few hours later, things seemed to be settling down. However, the police would not give Mayela a copy of the statement. She really wanted one, though, since there was a larger-than-you'd-think chance that the truck driver would just come back to the police station that night, and pay off the cops to "forget" to file their report.
But she eventually relented, and we went back home. I don't know if I've mentioned this yet, but Mayela had recently won her town's election for the position of vice-mayor, so she had a little bit of clout at the police station. There may actually be a chance that this all plays out fairly. In addition, the truck driver happened to have insurance, which is apparently a rare phenomenon here.
We probably won't know how things work out for a few weeks, but I'm sure it'll be interesting!
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Branching out
We've just returned from a 5 night tour of Nicaragua (at least the part of it that's southwest of San Isidro).
Mayela, Aimee, and I packed our bags, and walked to the outskirts of town. The west side of San Isidro is bordered by the Pan-American highway, the region's most well-known, and best-maintained international expressway. It is, of course, what we would call "a road".
I'm just happy that it's paved. And yes, that's a donkey grazing across the street. I love this place.
Our first stop was Granada. It's a old missionary town that has lots of colonial buildings, including more churches than I've ever seen in any city, ever.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. It's time to breakdown the greatest of all Latin American traditions: the intercity bus ride.
Nicaraguan buses embody the same characteristics that I've seen in Argentina and Mexico (near-suicidal drivers, people packed like cattle, and a critical lack of air-conditioning), but this country has one-upped its competitors. The bus drivers don't stop for anything more than to pack on more passengers. That means that if you have to use the bathroom, you hold it until you reach your destination (or revise your destination, accordingly). However, if you're hungry, they've got you covered. For the small price of an oven-baked snack, most bus drivers will let on every imaginable type of vendor. The drivers drop off the salespeople whenever they finish their pitch, and they presumably catch the next bus in the opposite direction. Repeat. The goods for sale are usually edible, but I've seen everything from miracle pain-relieving cream to DVD laser cleansers (both for sale by the same guy, by the way). Aimee's even seen some pills that can cure AIDS. Impressive.
Here's a more benign offering.
The stations are equally impressive, packing in any number of revived ex-schoolbuses. Some drivers bother to paint over the name of their bus's former owner, but more ofthen than not, they sport the title of one US school district or another. For the record, if there's anyone from Clark County or Midvale school districts, your former coaches are disproportionately well represented.
Back to the trip. After a night in Granada (where we met up with two of Aimee's Peace Corps friends), our newly enlarged group went to Laguna De Apoyo. This amazing lake was formed by the cave-in of a former volcano. The water is thermally warmed, and it's the cleanest that I've seen in this country. Apparently, due to its isolation, there are four fish in this lake that aren't found anywhere else in the world.
Unfortunately, our ground level hostel was great for swimming, but not for taking photos that capture all of the spectacle. But I've found a picture taken from an elevated location that does. It's here.
After a great day of lazy-laguna swimming, we headed for the coastal retreat of San Juan Del Sur. It's a city that's built along a hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It's a popular local retreat that is gaining significant international fame. Here's why:
This is a local fisher that's on his way to catch lunch for himself and his family.
And one more picture at night.
The logo on the side of the lifeguard tower is for the local rum (of which I'm a huge fan, by the way). Flor de Caña apparently sponsors the whole town. Their logo is on everything from buildings to street signs. Accordingly, San Juan del Sur is one of the cleaner, and better maintained towns that I've seen in the region.
Here are a few shots of the hilltop resort that we stayed at. We rented out a fully-stocked house overlooking the ocean (for less than each of us would have paid to stay at a Motel 6 in The States). I've had a grin on my face for the last three days.
We're back in San Isidro for the night, but we're heading out again tomorrow. If the last side trips are any predictor, we'll have a great time.
Mayela, Aimee, and I packed our bags, and walked to the outskirts of town. The west side of San Isidro is bordered by the Pan-American highway, the region's most well-known, and best-maintained international expressway. It is, of course, what we would call "a road".
I'm just happy that it's paved. And yes, that's a donkey grazing across the street. I love this place.
Our first stop was Granada. It's a old missionary town that has lots of colonial buildings, including more churches than I've ever seen in any city, ever.
But I'm getting ahead of myself. It's time to breakdown the greatest of all Latin American traditions: the intercity bus ride.
Nicaraguan buses embody the same characteristics that I've seen in Argentina and Mexico (near-suicidal drivers, people packed like cattle, and a critical lack of air-conditioning), but this country has one-upped its competitors. The bus drivers don't stop for anything more than to pack on more passengers. That means that if you have to use the bathroom, you hold it until you reach your destination (or revise your destination, accordingly). However, if you're hungry, they've got you covered. For the small price of an oven-baked snack, most bus drivers will let on every imaginable type of vendor. The drivers drop off the salespeople whenever they finish their pitch, and they presumably catch the next bus in the opposite direction. Repeat. The goods for sale are usually edible, but I've seen everything from miracle pain-relieving cream to DVD laser cleansers (both for sale by the same guy, by the way). Aimee's even seen some pills that can cure AIDS. Impressive.
Here's a more benign offering.
The stations are equally impressive, packing in any number of revived ex-schoolbuses. Some drivers bother to paint over the name of their bus's former owner, but more ofthen than not, they sport the title of one US school district or another. For the record, if there's anyone from Clark County or Midvale school districts, your former coaches are disproportionately well represented.
Back to the trip. After a night in Granada (where we met up with two of Aimee's Peace Corps friends), our newly enlarged group went to Laguna De Apoyo. This amazing lake was formed by the cave-in of a former volcano. The water is thermally warmed, and it's the cleanest that I've seen in this country. Apparently, due to its isolation, there are four fish in this lake that aren't found anywhere else in the world.
Unfortunately, our ground level hostel was great for swimming, but not for taking photos that capture all of the spectacle. But I've found a picture taken from an elevated location that does. It's here.
After a great day of lazy-laguna swimming, we headed for the coastal retreat of San Juan Del Sur. It's a city that's built along a hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean. It's a popular local retreat that is gaining significant international fame. Here's why:
This is a local fisher that's on his way to catch lunch for himself and his family.
And one more picture at night.
The logo on the side of the lifeguard tower is for the local rum (of which I'm a huge fan, by the way). Flor de Caña apparently sponsors the whole town. Their logo is on everything from buildings to street signs. Accordingly, San Juan del Sur is one of the cleaner, and better maintained towns that I've seen in the region.
Here are a few shots of the hilltop resort that we stayed at. We rented out a fully-stocked house overlooking the ocean (for less than each of us would have paid to stay at a Motel 6 in The States). I've had a grin on my face for the last three days.
We're back in San Isidro for the night, but we're heading out again tomorrow. If the last side trips are any predictor, we'll have a great time.
Friday, January 09, 2009
A farm, a baptism, and a feliz cumpleaños
I'm back in San Isidro, and I've finally got some time to get you all caught up.
We spent the first couple of days after the New Year exploring San Isidro's surrounding areas. The first side trip was a quick one to the local river to watch a baptism for some young members of Aimee's host family's church.
They're Evangelical Christians, and apparently their meetings include speaking in tongues, and are quite a sight to see. This particular baptism was relatively mundane, but did involve fully clothed swimming by the pastor and the baptise-ees.
Catholicism is still the major religion (as it is for all Latin American countries that I can think of), but los evangelicos have a pretty significant foothold. Their churches are smaller, but more prolific. Many cities seem to have a few small Evangelical churches, but they only serve one or two extended families.
The next side trip took us to the farm of Aimee's host-sister's boyfriend. He works for the regional Pepsi offices (which is unquestionably one of the nicer jobs around here). To show how seriously he values his job, he avoids drinking not only Coke, but also all other Coke products. We've been out with him on several occasions when he's refused to drink a beer, because the restaurant didn't stock the one that Pepsi distributes. At first, I thought that this was a little ridiculous, but when I realized how scarce jobs are (and how nice his is), I understood. But I still drink anything that's put in front of me. It's a habit.
Anyway, we went to the farm that he bought as a sort of retreat. His purchase also included a family of campesinos that live and work one the land. They're free to leave, but aren't likely to, since there aren't many jobs for them to leave to.
They were in the middle of clearing the land when we arrived.
The locals utilize the scorched earth method of land clearing, in which they'll use a machete to clear the larger trees, and then burn out the fallen limbs and low growth. It's a common technique throughout the region, including in Brazil, where they're burning down the rainforest to plant corn or soybeans that will eventually be used to produce ethanol. I cringed when I heard that for the first time, but after seeing firsthand how farmland can provide much needed jobs, food and exports (and to some locals, the rainforest doesn't seem to produce much more than malaria), I realized that it's not such a black and white decision.
But on a lighter note, I added another incident onto my growing roster of reasons to dislike horses. The farm was separated from the road that we arrived on by a pretty large river (coincidentally, the same one from the baptism). Since I was in no mood to find God, I wanted to stay dry. Option #2: horseback.
This is Aimee's, "you've got to be kidding me" face.
And this is Mayela, Aimee's host-sister, and her boyfriend (the owner) crossing the river.
I looked far less coordinated.
Our other trip took us to Matagalpa, the capital city of the departamento that includes San Isidro. The city is essentially the county seat, and was bustling with activity for the New Year. It's a cool little cultural city with great food and friendly people. I couldn't think of a better way to spend my birthday.
We spent the first couple of days after the New Year exploring San Isidro's surrounding areas. The first side trip was a quick one to the local river to watch a baptism for some young members of Aimee's host family's church.
They're Evangelical Christians, and apparently their meetings include speaking in tongues, and are quite a sight to see. This particular baptism was relatively mundane, but did involve fully clothed swimming by the pastor and the baptise-ees.
Catholicism is still the major religion (as it is for all Latin American countries that I can think of), but los evangelicos have a pretty significant foothold. Their churches are smaller, but more prolific. Many cities seem to have a few small Evangelical churches, but they only serve one or two extended families.
The next side trip took us to the farm of Aimee's host-sister's boyfriend. He works for the regional Pepsi offices (which is unquestionably one of the nicer jobs around here). To show how seriously he values his job, he avoids drinking not only Coke, but also all other Coke products. We've been out with him on several occasions when he's refused to drink a beer, because the restaurant didn't stock the one that Pepsi distributes. At first, I thought that this was a little ridiculous, but when I realized how scarce jobs are (and how nice his is), I understood. But I still drink anything that's put in front of me. It's a habit.
Anyway, we went to the farm that he bought as a sort of retreat. His purchase also included a family of campesinos that live and work one the land. They're free to leave, but aren't likely to, since there aren't many jobs for them to leave to.
They were in the middle of clearing the land when we arrived.
The locals utilize the scorched earth method of land clearing, in which they'll use a machete to clear the larger trees, and then burn out the fallen limbs and low growth. It's a common technique throughout the region, including in Brazil, where they're burning down the rainforest to plant corn or soybeans that will eventually be used to produce ethanol. I cringed when I heard that for the first time, but after seeing firsthand how farmland can provide much needed jobs, food and exports (and to some locals, the rainforest doesn't seem to produce much more than malaria), I realized that it's not such a black and white decision.
But on a lighter note, I added another incident onto my growing roster of reasons to dislike horses. The farm was separated from the road that we arrived on by a pretty large river (coincidentally, the same one from the baptism). Since I was in no mood to find God, I wanted to stay dry. Option #2: horseback.
This is Aimee's, "you've got to be kidding me" face.
And this is Mayela, Aimee's host-sister, and her boyfriend (the owner) crossing the river.
I looked far less coordinated.
Our other trip took us to Matagalpa, the capital city of the departamento that includes San Isidro. The city is essentially the county seat, and was bustling with activity for the New Year. It's a cool little cultural city with great food and friendly people. I couldn't think of a better way to spend my birthday.
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