Frontera. The Spanish word for border. 'Frontier' is the obvious and direct translation, and probably a more accurate description. It conjures images of the Wild West - lawless, chaotic and full of scrambling people - and thats' about right.
The last land crossing I did was from El Salvador into Guatemala two years ago and I never got off the bus. I didn't need to. The authorities came on, collected out passports, stamped them and returned them. Before that, my last encounter was during my summer backpacking trip through South America four years ago. So, I'd like to say I have experience, but even that can be useless at a high-intensity crossing... at it's impossible to know what to expect.
My day started in Costa Rica at 3am - up to catch the first of five buses on the day - not that I knew that at the time. The 4am bus arrived at 4.45am and wound it's way down narrow dirt tracks with steep drop offs and magnificent views as it returned us to sea-level.
I spotted a cluster of exceptionally tall Germans while waiting for that bus and confirmed on the next bus they were also headed to Nicaragua. Rule #1 of a border crossings- attach yourself to someone, the more height and testosterone the better.
The German's weren't the most friendly so I trailed them on the three buses it took to get to the border. Arriving we saw a line out the door and down the block, with people everywhere. I stepped off the bus and into a mess of hawkers - requests from every direction to carry my bags or change my money. I fought them off and headed to the end of the line, marked by a giant muddy puddle. Luckily, I times it right and the Germans' were right behind me, looking like we were together. Carry all my bags, valuable, both passports and money in that environment is unnerving, a criminal's perfect tourist feeder.
The line moved slow, so I decided to practice my Spanish on the guy in front of me - a migrant worker named Pedro. He lives in Managua, but works in Costa Rica. He tells me his 18 yr old daughter lives in Miami. He proudly pulls out his address book to show me her number, complete with a Florida area code..
Pedro spends six hours on the bus, plus extended border crossings to get to his job on the Nicoya Peninsula. He can only stay in Costa Rica a month at a time, so he woks 30 days straight then returns home to Managua for a government required seven days. Then he goes back. The pay is much better in Costa Rica he tells me. Pedro works in construction, a brick layer. Suddenly I see him as the maestro of the Habitat builds I've done in Latin America. He isn't really, but the idea of it endears him to me even more.
Pedro guides me through the border and all the processes that feel as foreign as Star Trek's final frontier - agents, forms and a currency tout, informing me who to use, the proper rate and how much to change. Without any agenda or personal gain, even my skeptical self felt comfortable under his advisement. We parted a few minutes later at the Costa Rican departure desk. He left for a bus to Managua.
I got my exit stamp and stood confused about where to go next. There were no signs and no obvious route, just a door returning me to the frenzy outside. A guard informed me I had to walk 2 kms through a dusty no-man's land . I surveyed the route and decided to wait for the Germans - they were heads taller than any local and a quadruple play was just what I needed. They understood my intimidation and escorted me through a maze of trucks and obscure passages - I can only assume their height gave them an advantageous perspective, because I had no clue which way to go on an otherwise confusing route to the Nicaraguan immigration house.
We emerged at a swine flu check - a yes or no checkbox survey, facilitated by hefty woman at an outdoor folding table with plastic chairs. Answering 'no' to every question- no headache, no soar throat, no nausea, no unwashed hands literally got us a stamp of approval to enter. We paid our entry tax, got out stamp and were thrown into a new flurry of touts ushering us into taxis and onto buses. I said good bye to the Germans and went looking for my bus.
Of course my bus didn't leave from the main terminal, instead it was across a dusty road full of 18 wheelers headed for the border and the other side of a long razor wire topped wall keeping the local townsfolk separated from the immigration station. I paid a dollar to enter through a guarded gate into real Nicaragua, being jostled and barraged with offers of taxi's and hotels. Vendors sold fruit, vegetables, socks, batteries and any other possible items of desire under a sweltering sun. I kept my bags close and my head down, heading for the old school bus loading passengers. I asked the ticket collector standing at the buses door if it went to Rivas where I had to change for San Juan del Sur. No, he tells me, no buses go there, I must take a taxi. Two taxi drivers listening to the conversation immediately start bartering with each other to get my fare, lowering the amount faster and faster without me saying a word. Even so, it was more than I was wanting to pay and I was certain there was a bus to San Juan.
Overwhelmed I stood with my back to a wall like a mafia man does to limit points of attack. I pat the change purse stuffed in my bra and my 'decoy ' wallet and passport tucked in my pocket. I pull back and calm myself, refusing to get caught up in the chaos.
'Where you going?' a man asks after I refuse all offers of taxis. I tell him Rivas and he tell tells me to get on the bus I'd just been turned away from. "it's good' he says. He calls over to the ticket collector and I realize this guy is the driver. The collector and I lock eyes without speaking and he motions for me to get on board. I refuse, he has my bag and I want to see it go on ahead of me. He stores it behind the driver's seat, where there is one free seat next to it. Feeling conned and frustrated I beeline for the seat claiming it with my eyes and not looking away until I am seated in it. Eventually I look up at the man sitting next to me. It's Pedro and everything is ok again.
The bus follows the road that runs along the edge of Lake Nicaragua. Tall mountains on the far side and flat farm lands on our side. We pass houses fall smaller and shabbier than those in Costa Rica. Outside one hangs freshly made paper mache pinatas drying in the sun. There are horse drawn carts and a twenty something guys with gelled hair and a muscle shirt galloping down the road bringing home groceries on his horse.
Pedro tells me about Rivas and other places I will be visiting - he reminds me not to travel at night, but says otherwise everywhere I'm going is safe. We arrive in Rivas and he tells the driver to help me find the bus to San Juan del Sur. Before I can get off at the station,we are flooded with passengers and I am stuck on the bus. The driver spots the San Juan bus about to pull away and honks his horn. He tells me to stay on the bus and we watch the San Juan bus leave. The driver snaps the door shut and pulls out in pursuit of the other bus. We chase it up and down city blocks and finally catch up. My driver forces him to the cub at an intersection and tells him to stop. May bags are handed from one bus to the other and I am on my way to San Jan. I thank everyone and say goodbye to Pedro hoping hat somewhere in Miami a stranger is being as kind to his daughetr as he is to me.
My new bus is packed beyond breathing room. School bus bench seats packed with three adults and two children. Being last one on my spot is at the very front - where I usually prefer, but not three feet from an open bus door. My new driver and ticket collector, wearing coordinating Che Guevara caps, find a standing room spot a few rows back for me. The collector then climbs over seats collecting fares. Once again I feel a little nervous in the crowd, wondering about the integrity of those around me and my valuables that are in their reach. I stand there bobbing and rocking with the sway of the bus, thinking about my choice. Was i being foolish? Should I have forked out for a taxi? I felt safe but.... and then an older man seated to my left taps my arm. He and his wife offer me kind, warms smiles and insist I take his seat.
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