So then came the morning. I felt as if I had only slept an hour. I had. My voice was barely working, croaking like a frog ashore for too long. Claire was polite as always, "Michael, I think we should get up soon, we have to catch the bus you know." I was in hell, "Ooooh, I can't move," I moaned. "Well, the bus will be here in 15 minutes, right," she continued. I struggled with all my might to move an inch to face her and felt intensely sick, sore, tired, and miserable. "Go ahead. I'm not going to be productive today." She retired and brouht in Anna to have a go. Anna was less concerned and told me how it was. "We're leaving, are you coming?" I told her not to worry and that I would make my way to meet them later. She seemed content with that.

Noon and my wallet hasn't made it back to the hostel. Why wouldn't it come back to Botella de Lech? It was such a great hostel--big open kitchen, free internet, hammocks, courtyard, and the Argentine owner gave me a free night's stay for my birthday. I, half jokingly, asked "Hay una descuenta para cumpleanos?" to which her eyes grew and she excitedly inquired, "It's your birthday? You pay nothing." Fair enough. But my wallet didn't like the place evidently bacause it never made it back. So, I was to take my $50 bill and see how far it would take me.

It took me to the border. And what a strange border it was, with miles of trucks in line to pass. We passed them on the left, in the oncoming lane and flew into the shoulder whenever imposing lights shined into our windshield only 75 feet away. Being late, I avoided the infamous long lines, but found no buses going to Nicaragua that night. A concrete bench looked suitable for a bed and it was so. My neighbor seemed as if he would spend the night as well with his massive canvas sacks and after asking in simple terms, he assured me it was fine to pass the night there. Sleep number 6000.

A chihuaha puppy was scurrying underneath me when I awoke. A puddle of piss ran from the opposing bench to within inches of mine, coming only inches short of my pack. The owners cared not about this near tragedy, for my clothes already reaked and this would have put the nails in the coffin. They put the dog in a plastic agricultural sack, his whole body save his head. To our amusement, he would easily be agitated or excited at a hand motion and fall over. Tossing and turning and wrestling with the sack would not right him. Little fucker.

Then the frontera town awoke. Here were all these people, living in limbo, between Costa Rica and Nicaragua. They were nowhere and it seemed their existence mirrored it. They lived in shacks between two roads--one coming with trucks and the other leaving with trucks. Cooking and cleaning with greasy rags and resting on cots and hanging stained oil paintings of Jesus to get through this sad sad sentence of life. This was it for them. Maybe some cold ones over a game of smoky cards in the evening, sitting at lineleom covered tables. But, that's it.

Long story short, I got to San Juan del Sur and one of my first memories is an unbelievably beautiful, rounded, shapely rump hopping down the street at ungodly early hours of the morning. I discovered which hostel the girls were staying at, Casa Oro. Who leads me there but that fine sub lumbar lumps cutie swaying hypnotically to the front door. My dorm was just as pleasant a welcome, completely full of slumbering half clothed girls in contorted drunken sleeping positions...and me. Haha, life is good.

The following day was surf and truck rides and drinking to the wee hours of the morning. The Brits and I were the first ones on the dance floor. I contributed my voice to Niel Young's "Rockin in the Free World" and the chicks discovered corn hole. Anna won her first game.

written by  miltshakenbake on March 12, 2010 from San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua
from the travel blog: Central America
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Even our hostel is like a painter's color palette. I swear the central courtyard walls are the exact same flourescent yellow-green of my loft bedroom, senior year of college. Feels like home, and to be honest, I'm seriously considering owning a hostel one day. I've been touched by the last few I've visited. Evidently some photographers have been touched too, as this hostel, Hospedaje Libertad, is featured in a Nicaraguan magazine, Hecho. It's proudly sported at the reception desk. They've got a gorgeous central courtyard with small yard, garden, fountain, tables, chairs, and the essential row of hammocks. In the back courtyard there's ample space to hang your clothes on the two lines after handwashing them in the giant sinks equipped with graded concrete washboards. Feels nice to put some elbow grease into your clothes and do some free laundry. My yellow travel shirt wrang out some putrid, viscous fluid resembling chocolate milk. Hours of sweaty backpacking, busing, volcano trekking, and concrete bench sleeps soaked deep in the threads, coming clean. Beautiful sight. Next to the washing sinks lies the kitchen, where we've been cooking some epic breakfasts. 10 oranges for 10 cordobas, or 50 cents and a hand squeezer lent us fresh juice this morning with a feast of fruit. Oh, the pinapple here is heavenly--small, round, white, and soft. Then fried eggs, real cage free brown ones, homemade, savoury donuts, and coffee with Baileys. Don't think I can eat til dinner.

We're heading out to Leon today. Going to climb some more fire mountains and maybe get the chance to do some volcano boarding. Keep you posted, and load some pix soon. Sorry this PC isnt accepting my USB, but manyana. Always manyana.

written by  miltshakenbake on March 20, 2010 from Granada, Nicaragua
from the travel blog: Central America
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