Que Dia!

Post date: Jun 28, 2010 10:29:18 PM

Que Dia. What a day.

Started it off lost, which is the only way to get a true Central American experience. Google maps makes things look so simple. Just turn right on Boulevard de los Heroes and you’ll run right into the PanAmerican Highway! Eh, not so. Ended up getting directions from at least three sets of gas station attendants. The first says, “Go downtown.” The second says something useless, and the third actually gave me the name of the road I needed. Of course, my comprehension is limited in Spanish land, but it still seems that they’d have better steering of way-steerers. I’ve come up with a number of potential explanations for why so many people here suck at giving directions:

1. Many of the areas I visit seldom see visitors, so there’s no need to know how to give directions.

2. The locals don’t drive. They just tell the bus driver or taxi their destination, then hop on, hop off.

3. Their path-finding style is different than Americans; Americans rely on highly visible road signs with distinct road names, but Latin Americans seem to rely more on landmarks, which to the foreign eye, all look the same.

4. Their sucky directions are entirely a misperception of my own ignorance.

The day to El Salvador started and ended lost. The day from El Salvador to Nicaragua started off lost. At least I made it to Nicaragua!

Some people are overly eager to lead you the way. More on that in a minute.

Yesterday I handed a local and his daughter $5 to lead me to the cheap hostel I’d located via Lonely Planet or hostels.com or something. The owner opened with the statement “we closed.” Que dia indeed. She let me stay anyways, in spite of the fact that they had no running water, and that I ended up bathing with chlorinated pool water. Reminded me of the “banyas” in Alaska. Kinda fun, actually. I ate a mammoth bowl of refried beans with some tortilla chips William’s mom gave me, plus half a pineapple I’d bought earlier that day. The pineapples here are probably the best I have ever eaten. So good you even eat the core, which is fibrous yet still yum. And while I’m on it, I ate half a loaf of banana bread in Guatemala that truly competes with any banana bread Mom has ever made. Sorry, Ma. The hostel was more than enough, so I can’t complain.

Got an early start to Honduras, which is good because I spent well over an hour, as previously mentioned, just trying to figure out where the highway was. As in the states, roads here sometimes have multiple names. I approached Honduras only a couple hours later. El Salvador, by the way, is highly Americanized. The roads are built similarly, the gas stations are totally American excluding the operators, and they even use the dollar as the national currency. The road side advertisements look American.

Approaching the border to Honduras, I was soon swatting flies for hours. Flies in the figurative sense, but I was literally waving my hands like I was trying to swat flies when I was surrounded by a solid five or six Hondurans insisting that I use them as my guide through the Customs procedures. Here I am, zooming along, pull into a turn toward the border, when these guys spring out of their chairs, start shouting and running towards me and my bike. I slow down but instantly smell something wrong. They jabber about speeding up the process of filing all my paperwork for $5 or $10 or in English, or whatever they had to offer. “My name is Jose!” “I am your guide. I’m Alejandro.” “I speak English! I’m your best guide!” I was none too pleased with their pressure, and I let them know after their merciless attacking. “I want no one! Go!” I shouted. The police officer recognized my anger and pointed me in the direction of my first stop, a place to make a copy of my bike permit. For hours they followed me. Eventually it dwindled to one guy, an English-speaker, who never left my side and kept explaining every step in spite of the fact that I could and did decipher the steps without his help. At the last stop, I verified with the official that that was the last stop, then I turned to my “helper” and asked, “Why are you still trying to help me? I did not ask for your help.” “I just like to help people.” “But, I am not paying you anything.” He then sorta smiled, muttered something, then mosied off. Part of me wonders if he took my sandals, which is the 3^rd pair I’ve lost since I started this trip. They had doggie doodie on them, so I’d bungied them to a bag. It’s possible they’d fell off. Who knows.

The first Honduras border was a sweaty nightmare of “more copies!” of everything- passport, registration, title, license, the El Salvador permits, the Honduras permits... but I prevailed. And I prevailed yet again at the exit to Nicaragua, which was smoother but just as time consuming as the first border. Here I rudely laughed away the guide offers and roughly described what I felt about my first border crossing in Honduras. Ah well, I’m never satisfied, especially regarding efficiency.

Perhaps more interesting, I survived a scam. Honduras has many police checkpoints, but all were legit except one. At this one a lanky, whitish looking Honduran officer approached after I killed the engine. He shook my hand, asked the regular questions, “Where you coming from, where you going, where’s your permit?” I keep it light and stupid when dealing with cops. The cop quickly said that he was going to write a ticket and that I would have to pay the bank because I did not have my passport in my pocket, but in my bag atop the tank. The other cop was friendlier and I was able to divert the topic to how my bike has had some problems. But, I asked what the payment was for and whether or not I could get a receipt. They tried to intimidate me by holding my International Driver’s License and reiterating the instruction to pay the bank. The lanky cop said it was $65 and then came back with $45. I ignored him, feigning to not understand. The other cop asked how much I had and I said “nothing!” He seemed to like me and he quietly waved me on. I laughed at it as I left. What a bunch of goons.

I saw cows swimming across a river, herded by a cowboy. I stopped atop the bridge to watch the procession. I also saw other herds being led across streets. One time a horse just stood in the middle of the road, showing off his physique. All in all the terrain is much the same here as has been since Guatemala City- mountainous, green, and with occasional rushing, muddy rivers. I’m anxious to see Costa Rica tomorrow.

I bartered the price of my room at this hotel to $7. No A/C, but a fan, a decent bed, and another bucket with water with which to wash myself. Not bad. The hostel I’d hoped to reach in Managua was $5, but it had already been dark an hour by the time Nicaraguan Aduana (Customs) released me, and with Nicaragua’s reputation, I decided driving at night was a bad idea. So here I am, five minutes from the border after successfully crossing two nasty ones in one day.

Hopped over to a nearby restaurant for some papoosahs (spelling?), which William had recommended I eat since it is traditional Nicaraguan food. They are deep fried bread with some cheese, I guess (I couldn’t tell in mine), topped with a cole slaw-like vegetable stuff, with some kinda cream and salsa. It was pretty yummy, but it wasn’t to die for. Maybe another chef is needed. Meanwhile, I’m slamming down my 1.5 liter water. It will be gone by bedtime. Lost alotta water today waiting in lines I wasn’t sure I needed to be in.

All is well that ends well.