We knew this was going to involve jumping on and off a fleet of buses and could only hope that connections would work out favourably. Our last mode of transport for the day was to be a boat – would we be in time to catch the last one?
This epic journey started in Santa Elena where we caught the 6.30am bus which 2 hours later deposited us in Clomes and we’d parted with a just $5. The journey down was through very pretty rural, hilly scenery but unfortunately there wasn’t even the shortest of stretches of paved road. The bumpiness we didn’t mind but we reached the interchange junction later than anticipated. However, lady luck was smiling and a Penas Blancas bus pulled up immediately so we quickly transferred. We were now on a smooth road and barrelling towards the border but marginally narked that we’d been charged the full fare from San Jose. Especially since we had to stand for the duration of the journey. For those of you who want the facts and figures it was $9 a head for this 3hr leg.
As we approached the border town we were dismayed to discover that this section of the Panamericana resembled a truck stop. They weren’t parked in the customary side-by-side formation but forming an orderly queue snaking towards the border. As our bus crawled past and we soon realised that this wasn’t going to be one of those relaxed, quick hops from one nation to another. The wagon worm was easily 3kms long with no visible sign that vehicles were successfully negotiating immigration at the head. Luckily our bus terminated at the border so it didn’t need to join the world’s longest car park. However, there were numerous bus companies disgorging their passengers so we had our own snaking queue to join.
The back of the queue was a few hundred yards away from the immigration building but the authorities were keeping everything organised and dishing our immigration forms. Believe me we had ample time to get that, unnecessary in our computerised world, bit of paperwork completed. We eventually got stamped out of Costa Rica and then had to walk the steaming hot kilometre over no-man’s land to Nicaragua. For some unknown reason people in uniforms kept stopping us and checking our passports. The Nicaraguan side was chaos with insufficient space in the formalities building. Plus some cheeky young entrepreneurial beggar tried to tell us it cost a dollar for the necessary immigration papers. We did have to fork out a dollar each for some other random tax but never did work out what it was for.
Two hours and 15mins after getting down from the bus and $12 each lighter in the pocket we finally entered our next ‘new’ country. We waded through the cacophony of noise from taxi touts and money changers; a bank and the local bus station were what we were after. You often get a better exchange rate on the street but we wanted to establish the official rate before risking that route. Unbelievably we had to show our passports to get into the local, dirt floored bus station. An ex-American school bus (chicken bus) was waiting with its engine chugging so we were soon on our way to Rivas; an hour and a dollar away. Yet again we had to stand and we felt more exhausted than at the end of a 6-hour high altitude mountain trek!
Reaching Rivas didn’t herald the end of the journey as we now had to get to San Jorge to catch that boat I mentioned at the beginning. With flagging energy levels and the clock ticking we decided to jump in a taxi and this time there wasn’t a chicken bus waiting for us. I had been looking forward to using these chicken buses as it’s always amusing when domesticate and agricultural beasts board. We’ve shared many a charabanc with hens tied to seat supports, pigs stuffed in the boot and goats trussed upon the roof. To my dismay the phrase doesn’t come from your journey unravelling to the sound of cheeping, bleating, mewing and yapping. Apparently it’s because you collectively resemble a mobile battery farm. Now I always thought the phrase was packed like sardines and considering we were in a metal container surely it’s more appropriate.
We’d just agreed a taxi fare when another couple approached and asked to share – we’re always happy to save a bob or two. Minutes later we were at the ferry terminal in San Jorge and yes, we’d made it in time to catch a boat that day. In fact a ferry was waiting so we marched towards it with great purpose only to be stopped to pay another tax with seemingly no purpose. It was only C10 (about 50 cents) so we didn’t stop to question. It was lovely to finally sit down and the hour long crossing (C50 each) towards Isle de Omepete was very pleasant. Steve had booked us into a place on the outskirts of Moyogalpa which we could instantly see was little more than a village. Quarter of an hour later we were being warmly greeted at Hospadaje Soma. http://www.hospedajesoma.com/index.html
