We left La Fortuna for the border about noon and made it about 5pm. Other than Mexico and a few small borders in Eastern Europe, I don’t remember a time I had to cross a major border in a far off land. It’s an experience in itself. I would have published pictures for your entertainment but I remember that in Sudan taking pictures of anything official is a big no-no so I figured I’d play it safe in Nicaragua. (Granted, I secretly wouldn’t mind a trip to jail in a foreign place so I can get on the tv show, Locked up Abroad, and tell a good blog story, but I won’t openly seek it.)

We arrived at the border and exited our taxi and were immediately welcomed by a friendly Nica bloak who wanted to assist us through the process and taxi us to our next destination. When making decisions on what to do in this situation, my rule is generally simple in that I allow him to work his magic at his own discretion, giving no indication of reciprocation until I believe he is worth the effort. In this case our friend was great.

Most people cross this border in buses or cars, which have specific exit and entry steps that they’re headed through. On foot it’s a whole other beast and we felt that having Jose (his name) show us exactly where to go, what to fill out, how to pay, etc was a real benefit to our stress level, which tends to accentuate when your hot, lost, confused, luggage-strained and on high alert.

To give you an idea of this border crossing, 18-wheeler trucks were lined and parked for what seemed like miles back. I can only imagine what that bureaucracy entails. Cars were basically the same. Kids, animals, vendors, and general chaos ensued through the whole hot and dusty procession of exiting CR and then walking the 100 meters to the Nicaraguan entry side. There were no lines or signs of direction, only people, lots of people, many of whom were looking worn.

Jose navigated us to the remotest of buildings and processed us through, even spotting us the cash to enter. He snapped fingers at people and they brought receipts, he carried our luggage, and then piled us into his little souped up taxi car and drove us to San Juan Del Sur. We paid $30 a piece to minimize and efficiently navigate this whole process, including taxi fare to a town 45km away, and collectively agreed life was good.

After we left Tamarindo, we traveled hard and stayed in a new place for three nights in a row. Each movement took between 3-6 hours so there was a lot of time for reflection. With the exception of the trip north to the Costa Rica/Nicaragua border, we’ve found affordable means of comfortable and efficient travel. (We’re avoiding stinky rinky local buses.) We splurged on the trip to the border, hiring a private driver for $100 a piece, because what normally would take 10-18 hours of travel time (with no delays) and multiple local connections only took us 4.5 hours (sans one small breakdown on a one-lane bridge) and saved us a full day on the trip and massive mental exhalation.

Driving through Costa Rica was absolutely beautiful, I will admit. The glowing greens in the mountains and rain forests, highlighted by the reds, pinks, oranges, and yellows of the yawning flowers, as well as the fields of coffee and pineapple plants and coconut and banana trees made the travel an experience in itself.

Not only do I enjoy watching the countryside roll for this discovery, but also for the self-thought and reflection, and the content, somewhat laziness of the moment, where I sit still, almost removed, and still get to see the world pass by. It’s an easy and pleasing thing to experience. That’s why it doesn’t surprise me to get a sinking feeling when I’m nearing my destination and realize I have to re-insert myself.

When I’m not thinking and watching, sometimes I read or write. I brought the bulky book of ‘Basic Economics’ in hopes of prepping myself during this trip for school, but that was a big mistake and lump of space in my backpack. Wishful thinking. My Apple Macbook Pro (shameless plug) has been a blessing though.

On one of the trips we traveled between the two mountain towns of Monteverde and La Fortuna, we took a jeep-like bus, then a boat, then another jeep-like bus. It was a neat leg. Marshall and I crammed up front next to the driver while other people sat in the back rows. There were two vehicles traveling together. At one point we passed a large pig loitering in the road and the driver of the first jeep stopped, got out, walked over to our driver and rattled something in Spanish that I didn’t understand. Our driver responded by shaking his head, no.

I asked Marshall what he said, and Marshall replied, “He asked if we had room in our jeep for the pig”.

After this, the other driver opened the passenger sliding door to his vehicle, looked inside, closed the door, came around, looked at his rear bumper, then walked over to our driver and said something else through the window, who laughed in response. Again I asked Marshall.

“He said they could always tie it to the bumper.” The driver got back in his jeep and took off. I laughed for a while at this random exchange and was disappointed when Marshall later said he had no idea what they said and that he made it all up. Smooth.

In the town of La Fortuna we stayed at a hostel in one of those communal rooms. We were the only two guys, with six other girls which was cool at first thought but bad in the morning because we didn’t want to wake up crack early and they all did, doing the annoying zipping and re-packing game with their luggage for what seemed like hours, keeping us from beauty sleep.

The town volcano actually erupted the day we arrived, which was cool because if you looked closely you could see some ooze. Later we went hiking to the giant waterfall near the base where we people watched and swam. Sometimes on a two-dude trip if you don’t plan ahead and scout out girls to accompany you on things like this, you’re stuck experiencing the majesty together and alone, in which case you’re never allowed to comment; rather, you simply nod in approval and appreciate the moments in silence. Or you just take crazy pictures.

The night before, we went out dancing at the local discoteca, which was funny because no girls would dance with me. Actually I did get this one local girl to dance, but I think it was because I stooped and gave her major puppy dog eyes in hopes of her teaching me a little latin flavor on the floor. One dance it was and no repeats unfortunately, for they all must have an image to protect in this town, particularly in the art of salsa dancing, and when you have a white guy in sandals moving his hips like a uncoordinated bull, I don’t really blame them.

The neatest part of the night came when they randomly parted the seas of people on the floor and a guy came on the loud speaker and introduced several girls who were going to belly dance for the crowd. They did and it was ok. Afterwards, the encore showed up and it was in the form of the main belly dancer, who kicked ass. Apparently there is a La Fortuna Belly Dancing Club and she is the ring-leader. Belly dancing is pretty cool, but belly dancing to salsa infused beats is awesome. She did some inspiring things. (Sometimes I have to remember that I’m a guy and I shouldn’t try to replicate girl dance moves.)

After the show, Marshall boldly asked her to dance and she told him a cold quick no, so I didn’t feel so bad about my rejections.

“So I was sitting in a penthouse in Acapulco smoking crack with Jimmy, this rich kid American and heir to a Texan oilman. Beautiful women and men with machine guns surrounded us. It was totally intense. ”

I looked over at my buddy, Marshall, and we jointly shook our heads at the absurdity of this story, being told by the most quintessential long-haired, surfer/backpacker Australian bloke I’ve ever run across. He was shirtless and non-chalantly telling this story while quick-chopping vegetables, waving his chef knife in the air to accentuate his points in an aussie slow-drawl.

We were in a cramped and muggy hostel kitchen in Tamarindo, Costa Rica with a handful of fellow surfer / backpackers. We looked at the two other girls who were boiling pasta in the same room and collectively agreed through eye contact that this guy was an idiot. It was time to move on.

Last week, I quit DC and moved up to Boston, settling in a mad rush and jumping on a flight south to Costa Rica and Nicaragua for a two week surfing excursion / end of summer wind down before I start school in September. Marshall and I planned nothing of this trip except our plane tickets so it kept things flexible, if not maddening.

We landed in the west coast city of Liberia and taxied to the surfing town of Tamarindo, which was an easy choice for its beginner waves and touristy night-life, but probably not the best one. With tourism its major industry, it is over-priced and far from authentic, but we have more opportunities to absorb and explore the inner workings of these two countries as the trip progresses.

We spent the first three days learning to surf in the mornings and siesta’ing in the afternoons, generally enjoying life away from reality. Two of the nights were spent in this $14 hostel, meeting the likes of the cracked out Australian and inked up surfers and although interesting conversations were had, lack of aircon, bedbugs, and a lone communal cold water shower and toilet cemented our decision to spend an extra $15 a night to upgrade accommodations for the rest of the trip.

We walk into the room the first night, saw no sheets, stained single bed mattresses, and Marshall’s statement said it all. “Wow, this is a far cry from the Ritz where I stayed in Florida last week for my company-wide meeting.”

“Dude, we can move if you want.” I say.

“Nah,” he said, “let’s give it a shot.”

“Good, let’s go out and get some beers.”

Next morning, we slowly roll out of bed, gnaw on a couple of bananas and chug Gatorade to rehydrate and potassium up our Imperial hangovers from the casino and club. “How much did I lose?”, I ask. “My hands are cut up. Are yours?” “Yeah”, he says. “What happened?”

Marshall grabs his camera (the truest of indicators) and notices pictures taken in a progression down the dark street towards the hostel. “The city lost power last night.”, he says. “We couldn’t find our way home in the dark and had to use the flash to navigate and get inside the hostel gates. Wow.” Our clothes are sprawled on the ground and covered in mud. We conclude it rains a lot in Costa Rica and the streets are slick dark. But the only thing that’s important right now is that we have a 9am surf lesson. It’s 8:55. Andale.

30 minutes later I’m sitting in the water on my board, absorbing the rhythm of the waves as they pass under me and for the first time I feel that ease, that stereotypical connection they say surfers feel with nature, despite sharing it with a thousand other fresh gringos in the busy waters.

My teacher doesn’t stop yelling at me to paddle, paddle, paddle, in his thick Costa Rican accent (which still resonates through my head three days later), and each time he says it I get angrier because I feel like I’m paddling my head off and not going anywhere. My arms are already tired, my chest is rash sore, and I’ve swallowed a gallon of salt water. Despite this, I feel lucky because I stand up and ride my first wave. It feels great. I give Marshall the howie sign, yelling at him that he owes me a cold beer for doing it on my first time, then crash and burn in the foamy aftermath at my lack of concentration.

We did this each morning for three days, each afternoon saying it was our last and then enthusiastically saying the next day, “let’s do this again”. There’s definitely something compelling about surfing.

Marshall’s trip so far has been a little bit rougher. We rented scooter motorbikes yesterday and his camera fell out of his pocket during a ride along the pedestrian filled, pot-holed streets and was never found. Today while surfing, an overeager speedster punk ran into him, causing Marshall’s board fin to break off, slice and wedge into the guys board, causing cash damage to both and ending his day.

We’ve decided Tamarindo has bad karma. So we hopped a bus to Monteverde, a mountainous town in north central Costa Rica known for its rain forest canopy tours, caves and waterfalls. After a couple of days in this area, we venture with fingers crossed into Nicaragua, unchartered Nicaragua, known for it’s beauty, gringo convictions, and US backed government coups. Pura Vida.