As you could see in my last post, I was dangling on a string from a list of six colleges. Each one kept tenderly caressing me with soothing emails reassuring me that my application looked very strong. Oh, did they try to spoon me you ask? Was I the little spoon you ponder? I'll leave that analogy for your own imagination to decide, but all in all I was stressed not knowing where I was going. Then the acceptance letters came, minus Yale of course, but I still didn't know. I knew that deep down one of my two fellowship applications to Marquette and Illinois State University would pull through. Maybe even both... Then the first letter from Marquette's Fellowship program came. Close, but no cigar. I had made it into the final round of their NCAA Graduate playoff bracket, but I wasn't good enough to be taken to the Championship game. Basically, I was Kentucky. I had been really hoping to go to Marquette because of its strong program, but something deep down said that things happen for a reason. Lo and behold, the next week I received an email stating that I had been accepted into the Peace Corps Fellows Program at Illinois State University. It was strange. About two months before I received the acceptance, I already knew that that program would be the one I would be attending. It was almost spooky how it all worked out. Sort of like a premonition brought to be by a hypothetical Terminator / John Conner duo. I'm happy that that goopy liquid dude didn't kill my dreams of getting a paid-for graduate offer for a Masters in Political Science. Thanks, Hypothetical Arnold Schwarzenegger.
No Problemo.
So folks, I'm going to grad school!
And then began the waiting for vacation. We've all had that feeling where work and school are just ticks on a clock restricting us from relaxation, piña coladas, and getting caught in the rain. That's how I felt after I accepted my graduate offer. It was kind of like senioritis back during my last semester of high school. I'd been accepted. Now what? My sole motivation to work during that week was to make it to April 5th, the day when I would take a bus up north to the beautiful country of Nicaragua to renew my tourist visa. So I waited, wished the students a happy home visit, and enjoyed the passing of time until April 5th at 2 p.m. My travel companion and wonderful friend, Letis del Carmen, joined me at the bus station. The bus, however, did not meet us at the bus station. We waited, waited some more, hopped over to the Chinese store to buy some cheap Rubix cubes for her family, and finally saw the bus pull up two hours late. Typically, buses in Costa Rica are on time all the time. It's quite magical how they actually leave at their designed times on the dot; however, this bus had no plan of being a normal Joe the Plumber. It was going for more of the John McCain "maverick" angle.
So on the bus we went. Five hours later after watching a horribly translated action movie into Spanish, we unloaded our bags into the pitch black night on the border between Nicaragua and Costa Rica. Customs was less of a hassle than I had planned. In fact, it was actually comical. The "bag check" consisted literally of a half-interested man asking us to open our bag while not really even looking inside. After a quick "okay", we got our passports back and hopped onto the bus. Through the darkness, Letis still could recognize her home country. The Lake of Nicaragua shone brightly by the moon's reflection, and we shoveled off the bus into the quiet city of Rivas, Nicaragua looking for a hotel. We had no reservation, but luckily enough there was a hotel right next to the bus station. After talking with the front desk dude, we knew something was up. The price for the night was almost 50% higher than it said elsewhere, and the checkout time was at 9 a.m. Ya, 9 a.m.! No time for sleeping in after a long bus ride. But without any other options than this limited sham at 11:30 p.m., we spent the night there. And yes, they did come knocking at 9 a.m. the next morning informing us that we had to leave. Tired, we gave them the classic "we're almost leaving" for the next hour and a half. Take that! Uh! Sha-bam! Dat's right. We done stuck it right to them early-rising Windexers!
After our victory over the passive-agressive cleaning ladies, we made our way to the ferry in San Jorge to take us to Ometepe. With no ferry leaving for another 2 hours and with the daylight burning away, we decided to take the smaller boat. Let me tell you. Don't ever take the smaller boat. Ever! Whatever you are wearing will get wet. You will feel everything turning in your stomach. Whatever money you saved by taking the smaller boat will not be worth it. Trust me. Looking back on it now, it was actually kind of a fun roller coaster ride welcome to the island. Some part of my brain enjoyed it. The other part cursed me for it. After an hour's ride through the choppy purgatory of Lake Nicaragua, we arrived at the Island of Ometepe.
"Oh my God. This looks like a postcard!"
Cheap beer kept us busy until the bus to Balgue came. During that time, I couldn't help but notice how many backpackers there were. All smelly. All with questionable fashion styles. All with matted crusty hair. They came in packs from the ferrys, all of them hustled by the hungry taxi drivers looking to exploit a fat gringo wallet. While touching my own unkempt hair, I asked myself, "Do I look like them?" After doing a quick pit smell check, I affirmed that I had a negative backpacker status.
The bus bumbled and tumbled for a good two hours meanwhile Letis gave me a tour of the island she had solely lived on for the first twenty-odd years of her life. It's crazy how things looked very similar to the conditions I had experienced as a Peace Corps Volunteer in Pohnpei, Micronesia. Same housing. Same skin color. Same warm hospitality. It was amazingly close, and it gave me chills and nostalgia wrapped up in a warm tortilla of novelty. When we arrived in the town of Balgue, Letis surprised her family by arriving unexpected. It had been a year and some months since she'd been back. Kisses and hugs followed while I took notes of cultural things like how people greeted each other and how close they stood from each other when they talk. Simple stuff. Monkey see, monkey do. After a tasty dinner and lively conversation, I took my room on a nice date to sleepy town.
The next day, we went to a place called Ojo de Agua. It's a natural spring in Ometepe that has a tingling mineral content and cold temperature. It was a good day of relaxed laughs and swimming until we attempted to leave. Now, I had never in my life heard about a manual motorcycle nor driven one. The concept of a manual motorcycle seems absurd. You literally have to use every appendage to drive it. Left hand, clutch. Right hand, gas. Left foot, gears. Right foot, brake. Freaking ridiculous. Although I gave it my best shot, there was no way I was going to safely drive ten kilometers on that death machine. Letis, once upon a time, had been a decent student of the death machine, and after a quick refresher course, she had driven us to the Ojo de Agua. Once you leave a manual motorcycle unused for a good four hours, it's almost impossible to start it back up again. I tried my best to kick the thing to life, but the death machine was already buried in its own stubbornness. A local Nicaraguan man revived the machine. I hopped on the back of the bike behind Letis, and within two seconds I was jumping off the back watching the bike do a wheelie with Letis flying to the side. Crash. My heart jumped into my throat. The way her body was tossed between the front tire and body of the bike made me very worried. Her left leg had a massive collision with the exhaust pipe causing a burn and deep hematoma. I grabbed my waterbottle and started dumping water onto the burn after we pulled Letis away from the bike. Now if I had just been thrown off the front of a bike, I'd think twice about getting back on. She, however, didn't want to be late back home, so again, slowly this time, we set off for back home to Balgue on the death machine. By some grace of God, we made it with all limbs still attached. Back home, stories of motorcycle burns passed around the family accompanied by wa-storying and the frequent pant-leg lift up.
The next day, I woke up at 5:30 with the top of a volcano in mind. A boy from Letis' family guided me up through a treacherous hike through clouds, unbelievably slippery mud, fallen trees, and howler monkey troops. Two and a half hours later, we were walking through the gorgeous crater of Volcan Maderas. [NOTE: Maderas is a dormant volcano whose crater is filled with drinkable water and numerous deer tracks. It's also the twin volcano to another volcano on Ometepe who is known for its lava at the top. In a sense, Ometepe is like the Ying Yang volcano island. One fire volcano and one water volcano. Water to put out the fire. Fire to heat up the water. Peace to calm the Rage. Excitement to kill the routine. The people really try to sell that idea, and they should. It's cool as hell to have not just one, but TWO volcanoes on an island. Not to mention, they're both gorgeous beings who have both been called one of the 7 Wonders of the World.] The hike was insane. My legs were shaking furiously under me on the way back down. How they didn't cut themselves off and run away from me in anger still astounds me today, but they still are reminding me of the pain of that day. They hurt. Badly.
Next morning after some tender hugs and kisses goodbye, I took the ferry back to Rivas to catch my bus to San Jose. This time, the border wouldn't be so easy. After crossing the Nicaraguan side with no problem, I stepped back into the land I'd called home for the past three months. Confidently, I handed my passport and customs form to the man behind the glass. In an incoherent Spanish, he asked me where was my ticket. Confused, I handed him my bus ticket. Clearly infuriated by my obvious stupidity, he then began to hound me in a tone that made me extremely nervous about the ticket. Finally, he made it clear that I needed to show him a return ticket back to the U.S. In front of everyone, he made me get out of the line to try to find the ticket on the United website. After burning my fingers fastly trying to find the confirmation for twenty minutes in an email on my phone, I couldn't find it. That was it. I wasn't getting back into Costa Rica. Job lost. FML! Defeated, I walked back to the Customs officer and explained that I couldn't find my ticket. I was willing to immediately buy a return ticket back to Nicaragua before my visa would expire. He then looked at me and said, "You know it's a requirement for have a return ticket, right?" Yes... I know that now damn you, sir! "Yes," I fumbled. "I'm sorry." To those words, he stamped my passport and hushed me out of the customs office and onto the Tica Bus. Overjoyed, I made it back to the bus in time for departure to San Jose.
Holy shit, that was scary close.
And so ended my visa run. A brief trip into the beauty of Nicaragua, its people, and the burning flames of an angry customs officer. I hope to go back someday to visit and see more of that country. It made me think about how much I miss Peace Corps and working with people from other countries. For now though, it's back to Pura Vida and hot showers.
Un beso, and I hope one day you too can enjoy the crazy fun of a visa run.
Cheers and enjoy the pictures.
