SAN SALVADOR, MANAGUA,  GRANADA AND OMETEPE

 

 

If ever a duller post need be writ, I can not imagine it.  I am now in a race to get south and spend adequate time in Costa Rica and Panama to finish out the last third of the trip in style.  Thus, this brief interlude follows long days on the bus, and leaves little in the way of lasting impressions.

 

From Ocotepeque a taxi is taken across the El Salvador border.   Plenty of security present, with both army and police showing their colors in great number.  Not sure what the local or national issues are, but did notice in eating dinner the night previous leading headlines talking about violence, the current crisis being bad for the region, and a family of eight being slaughtered.  I got the impression it was narco traffic related, but could not tell for certain.  Seems like Honduras therefore was a good place to be leaving.

 

I have chosen the village of La Palma as an initial target destination in El Salvador, due to the murals they have all over town.  It is a 15 minute ride across the border.  The murals turn out to be different than expected, with many walls and buildings painted in patterns and simple mural forms – not the storytelling, cover the entire wall versions I had expected.  While inquiring about “a tour of the murals,” I run into something even better.  The artisan shop of Felipe Argueta.

 

He employs two-thirds of the people in town, at his business Creaciones Artisticas.  His employees paint in a simple expressionistic style germane to the region.  Their wares include music boxes, calendars, matchboxes, notepads, figurines, and memory boxes.  I have run into him accidentally in an encounter with his daughter Wendy, who does some translating for me.  He invites me inside for a personal tour of his modest factory.

 

I am delighted at their colorful and playful art, their apparent satisfaction, the quality of the working conditions (so in contrast to much of this part of the world), and his willingness to share with a stranger who … once again … is asking way too many questions.  Too soon, it is time to move on.  Another chicken bus to catch.  This time for San Salvador.

 

Didn’t do justice to the capital city, either.  Hardly got a look at it.  Taxi driver took me to the wrong destination, and since my arrival was late (again) there was little time to argue.  Just set up the room (which probably belonged to a friend of his), check e-mail quickly, and depart for something to eat.  The meal is taken in a rare chain style restaurant and while pleasing, there is nothing remarkable about la comida.  A single drink afterward listening to a mariachi band only serves to act as a sleeping tonic.

 

A couple observations about El Salvador prior to a too-rapid departure.  The people are very hard working.  The men seem to be more ambitious here than in Guatemala and Honduras.  They are decidedly more prosperous.  Their economy (the same as Ecuador) is based on the US dollar and is said to be the best in Central America.  A gallon of gas was $3.99.  Plenty of late-model cars are in evidence.  The air is cleaner, with little of the choking diesel exhaust found even in the mountain passes of Guatemala.  In a physiognomy sense, the populace is a little more slender, a little whiter, and prone to wearing western style modern clothing rather than the traditional garb  I have experienced over the past two weeks.

 

The following day, I receive unparalleled assistance from the concierge at the beautiful Intercontinental Hotel in reviewing options for getting down to Nicaragua.  Teguciculpa, the capital of Honduras, is considered for additional time since it is halfway along the journey.  But I am running out of days and want to really focus on Costa Rica.  So a long 12 hour bus ride direct to Managua instead ensues.  The concierge provides for everything, makes multiple phone calls on my behalf, has no commission motive, arranges my taxi, and asks for nothing in return.  That is typical El Salvador.

 

The bus is more comfortable than many first class seats on American jets.  It is a double decker, with a quiet turbodiesel engine, a modern and clean bathroom on the lower level, shades, overhead storage racks, meals, and plenty to drink.  Only thing they didn’t have was a view.  The windows were dusty, and the glare so intense having shades down until sunset was mandatory.  So I got twelve hours to contemplate my navel to the universe.

 

This included border crossings – always an adventure – into first Honduras again (and of course, they demand another entry fee of  $3) followed about four hours later by Nicaragua.  Nicaragua charged each of us on the bus $14 as an entry gratuity.  We are made to feel nothing if not assured and comfortable, on both sides of both borders.  Finally arrive in Managua about 1:30 AM.  The ride has been easy.  But still energy draining.

 

 Now, every guidebook warns about Managua at night.  Security precautions are immediately evident.  Every hawker trying to part you from your cash for taxi or hotel services, emphasizes the security at their hotel.  I was really only seeking actual hot water and wi-fi, but they know something I don’t.

 

Even being allowed outside the bus station, requires a security guard to unlock a gate and then accompany you out to the taxi.  Two men stand by as guards while visiting the ATM.  Even at this hour of the morning.  My taxi ride costs $3.  A room is easily negotiated down from $40 to $28.  I spend the night, but don’t linger long.  Off again early the next morning for Granada, along the shores of Lake Nicaragua and one of those exquisite colonial cities that pave the Pan American Highway from Mexico to Panama City.

 

And what can be said about Granada that has not already been proclaimed about Antigua, San Cristobal, Merida, Old San Juan in Puerto Rico, and the standard colonial gems of Hispanic America?  It is colorful.  It has romantic architecture, an inspired mission style I have always found attractive, given that I grew up in Santa Barbara, California.  It has your standard sets of multiple Catholic churches.  Your well-attended public square and statues.  It is clean.  And it has a fun tourist prominade called Calle La Calizada.

 

The food and drink bargains there are to die for, la brisa coming from the lake rejuvenates in the afternoon heat, you meet folks from all over the world, the shopping is varied and interesting, and the walking itself is very pleasant … not quite up to the standards of Las Ramblas in Barcelona, for example, but very enjoyable nevertheless.  The later the hour, the greater the crowds.  They tend to filter in for drinks and dining after the heat wears off for the day.  And then the crowds just keep growing.  Granada is a fun city that has not been given its due.

 

I take my leave reluctantly from Nicaragua the following day.  Having missed the last of the direct collective buses for San Jose in Costa Rica (an eight hour trip), I decide once again to focus on Isla de Ometepe.  This is two hours away, out of Rivas on the shores of Lake Nicaragua – the largest body of fresh water in Central America.  It is a twin-headed volcano whose flows have together created an isle, which dominates Lake Nicaragua.  The island is famous for its rustic way of life and statues plus petroglyphs depicting humans, birds, animals, and geometric shapes.

 

The 3:30 boat out is supposed to take 45 minutes.  However, the afternoon wind has thrashed the huge lake into a frenzied chop, so that the trip actually takes an hour and one-half.  And while aboard, I am told the last boat of the day returns at 5:30.   Not 7 pm, as advised previously. Only half an hour remains to explore the island, or be forced to spend the night there.  My resulting death march in half an hour covers seven blocks up and back, a trip to the ATM, and a hurry-up pizza and cerveza with the cook promised a bonus if I can make it back to the boat on time with meal in hand.  He delivers.

 

There is not much that can be said about this beautiful, brooding place without a complete circumnavigation of the island.  I miss the celebrated statues and petroglyphs but get some alluring photo opportunities, including of our boat tilted at what seemed to be 45 degrees to port.

Coming home, the purser appears to have shortchanged me.  He does not give the correct cambia from a single bill given him for return passage to the Nicaraguan mainland. 

 

I ask for the correct change, he tries to go past me and brushes me off, then plays to the crowd.  “See what this imperialist Yankee pig is doing to me?” he seems to indicate with a dismissive wave of his hand and a broad, paternal smile.  I raise my voice.  He disappears, and promises to return with the correct change.  Nobody speaks English (who will get involved, at least), to explain that this man has shortchanged me and is trying to pinch my wallet.  The purser and I circle each other like wary wolves.

 

Finally, one woman comes up and explains to me the change is different because our return passage is on a different boat and the fee is somewhat higher.  Same voyage.  Same shipping line.  Same purser providing change.  No sign or announcement indicating a difference in fare.  Somehow I am supposed to know this.  Finally however, smiles break out all around, many Muchas Gracias are conveyed, and the purser and I emphatically shake hands.

 

Then break for the border.  It is about 45 minutes away, to La Frontera with Costa Rica.  There is not much more than I can do in Nicaragua.  What minimal time that has been allowed has pretty well already been maximized.  The taxi driver understands in his very limited knowledge of English that there is still a bonus in it for him if he can get me to the 8 PM collectivo bus leaving La Frontera for San Jose – the capital of Costa Rica.  That is a five hour drive from the border.   This is the part I Thank God that there are limited liability laws in this part of the world and American jurisprudence doesn’t rule the roost here.

 

For my cabbie nearly collides with every stroller, wheelchair, donkey-drawn cart, parallel taxi and pedestrian for the next 40 miles.  It is like the chase scene in “The French Connection.” Our speed exceeds 120 miles per hour on most of the run, and his wheels are outracing his lights.  We appear to be going around corners especially, blind as bats.  He gets me to the border 10 minutes early, and gets his bonus.  But I still do not make the 8 PM collectivo.  For the border crossing between Nicaragua and Costa Rica must be among the worst in the world for two countries not actually at war.  It makes Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin look like a kindergarten crosswalk.

 

First, you disembark from your vehicle on the Nicaraguan side.  Then, you have to walk a quarter of a mile on a rutted road with suitcases bouncing, flipping and turning past two guards each asking for your passport (one is Nicaraguan, another Costa Rican).  About thirty yards apart.  But well inside Nicaragua still.  Then, perhaps another quarter of a mile to the Nicaraguan border station, where you pay your $2 exit fee.  Then walk another quarter mile, once again on a rutted road with an indistinct left hand turn, toward the Costa Rica border station.  Two more functionaries stop me and ask for my passport.  Finally, the Tica at the Costa Rica station stamps my passport, accepts my entry fee, and passes me through.

 

Straight to a lineup of waiting taxi ambush artists.  They tell me I have missed the collectivo.  This is the equivalent of course, of “that is a bad hotel, you don’t want to go there, and it is full anyway and by the way I just happen to have a suggestion for you as to a safe place where you can stay.”  This relationship between cabbies and hotel owners is the same kind of relationship enjoyed by sharks and amphora fish.  Completely mutually supportive and symbiotic, but depending on who fleeces you the most thoroughly, I really don’t know which entrepreneur is the biggest predator.  Sometimes they simply take turns taking the bigger bite out of you

 

The last two negotiations of the night then, are the taxi ride (where a standard rate of $1 per kilometer is hinted at, except for the added night time premium, of course).  I threaten to go to another taxi until I get my price.  Twenty miles, for 18 dollars.  And then the hotel, at La Cruz – the first town inside the Costa Rican border.  They are no longer hovels with barely running or nonexistent water.  These are Holiday Inn quality quarters that charge $40 to $50 nightly.  “You are in Costa Rica now,” I am told.  “We have different standards here.  The prices are a bit higher.” I find the service is no better particularly, than further north, and the staff no more friendly.  Reality is, they are ALL quite friendly.  Apparently the change is mostly due to infrastructure differences.