Costa Rica

Semana Santa...Holy Week ushered spirits of good and evil into my life. I found them in Nicaragua; a country boasting beautiful volcanos, elaborate and old architecture, and cheap and delicious rum. In order to recap, I must begin with the end or at least towards the end, because the memories of my stolen pack, lost passport, and teary hours in the immigration office on the border are still real and red in my thoughts.

I spent the last three days holed up in a hostel in Managua, Nicaragua´s unfortunate capital city, replete with burned out buildings, shoeless children running in dirty streets, and sketchy men hissing on dark corners. Managua, also home to the US Embassy and the National Immigration Office was a mandatory stop on my unintended traveling trail. On Friday at around 8am in the morning, while waiting for my Ticabus in Rivas, a small, for the most part untraveled town about an hour north of the Costa Rican border, my bag (with passport, money, ipod, camera - and ALL of my photos from the trip thus far-, among other traveling essentials) was stolen out from under my hands, by a one toothed, gold-chain wearing, greasy haired man...and that´s how I described him in the police report I filed hours later. Kate, Tim and I were heading back to Costa Rica after a sweaty, suntanned and social seven days in Nicaragua.

The soon-to-be-object of my vengeful nightmares approached me as I was packing my water bottle into my bag. Tugging at my shirt sleeve, he motioned towards the bus departing from the station, mumbling, ¨hay su bus, hay su bus¨ (there is your bus). As I glanced in that direction, hands still on my pack, another unidentified guy pulled my bag out from under my arms from the opposite direction. In the half a second it took me to turn around, the man, my pack and most of the bustling crowd around the bus stop had vacated the area. *Evil Spirit 1*.

Realizing all of the contents in my pack were now missing, I began to get tight chested, barely able to communicate in English never mind Spanish. With a copy of my passport in my main pack, I decided to board the bus to the border anyways, hoping to find a kind soul in the immigration office that would allow me to cross the border with my copied, though unofficial passport. I would sort out the logistics of obtaining a new passport once I returned to Costa Rica. So we road the hour to the border, which gave me ample time to think about my losses. And the things that meant the most were of course no use to the Rivas Robber; my journal, the 100 or so precious pictures I had taken since arriving in Costa Rica, my passport, with over 20 stamps of my life travels thus far, my EpiPen, my retainer case The woman sitting next to me on the bus, put her hand on my knee for the last 20 minutes of the ride, whispering ¨tranquilo, tranquilo pobrobicta¨ (quiet, calm, poor little one). Apparently my muffled sobs were not so muffled.

So we made it to the border and I was promptly informed to head back to Managua about five hours north, go to the US Embassy, and the national immigration office, get a new passport and return to the border when I had everything I needed. This could take up to a few days and of course being a Saturday, the offices were closed until Monday. I stood there, with Kate and Tim (loyally and blessedly - *Best Spirits 1 and 2* - by my side), flashing my most convincing deer in the headlights expression, begging for a favor, begging for a departure stamp on the crumpled and dejected, oddly symbolic of my emotional state, copy of my passport. Finally after about three hours, a few calls to the US Embassy hotline, many hugs, and lots of waiting slumped against the wall of the border immigration office, I was granted a departure stamp, but warned that I could leave Nicaragua, but if I was not allowed back into Costa Rica I would have to return, go to Managua and get the temporary passport they had advised me to do initially. Feeling triumphant and newly optimistic, contemplating a trip to the Duty Free shop to buy my new Nica Immigration Office friends (*Good Spirits 3, 4 and 5*) some Flor to Cana rum to thank them for their efforts, Tim, Kate, and I walked the 100 yards to the Costa Rican line. There, a no-nonsense, Hitler-mustache donning Costa Rican immigration office looked me squarely in my eyes (which had retained some familiar strength and were no longer as wide and fragile) and said simply, ¨You cannot come in, go back to Nicaragua¨ (*Evil Spirit 2*). There was no more wind to knock out of my spirit. At this point I was deflated in an unsteady knee shaking kind of way. Having lost my ability to attempt to explain my situation, I just stared at him...but within minutes I was physically ushered to the other side of the line. It appears he wasn´t willing to permit my sad and desperate state to loiter too long on Costa Rica soil.

So we needed a new plan. We decided to head back up to Rivas in an attempt to find my passport, or at least talk to the police. While trying to find a bus north, we met Ulysses *Good Spirit 6* at the tourism bureau on the Nica-side. He offered us lodging in his apartment, a ride back to Rivas with his friend, and discount bus tickets. He also squeezed my shoulders and rubbed my back, urging me to find strength somewhere and insisting that money is money and things are things, but I´m here and whole and for that we should all be happy. I sincerely agreed, though began thinking about how difficult it is to accept the reality that you are in fact ¨whole¨ at times when you feel entirely shattered. So, we headed back to Rivas, spent the evening gaining composure, trying to rehydrate and refuel, and scour the city streets in an attempt to find my passport or perhaps talk to someone that may know something about it. I approached teenagers selling goods at the market, men driving the bicycle taxis, woman gossiping on the stoops outside the shops and homes. In the best Spanish I could muster, I told them about a one-toothed robber that stole my bag. I told them I would give them money for my passport returned, that I didn´t need (though would happily recieve) the other items lost with the bag, but I just wanted my passport. We didn´t come up with anything, but my story became somewhat of a legend at Hospedaje Lidia, the understated but cozy pension we stayed at in Rivas. Lidia and her mother, who was constantly taking a footbath in her rocking chair, bemoaned my losses and referred to me as la chica sin passporte (the girl without a passport) to their friends and passerbyers. They gasped in horror after inquiring how much my stolen camera and ipod were worth - undoubtedly the price of their small abode.

A plan was made and in the morning; Kate and Tim headed south back to the Costa Rican border to make it in time to catch their flights out of San Jose and I headed north to Managua, a city who´s reputation preceeded it in a dark and ominous way. No place for a blonde gringa with wide eyes and a fragile spirit to be wandering around alone. Again, I met kind people on the bus northward. A man bought me a gaterade and gave me his cousin´s business card - the best taxi driver in Managua. He insisted Gito would take good care of me. Not sure how I was supposed to find this reliable cousin, Gito, in a city where taxis outnumbered working bathrooms. So, I arrived in Managua about five hours later, and quickly found my hostel which was propped in the center of a four block safety zone in Barrio Martha Quezada. I was warned not to walk beyond the fruit stand to the north, the internet cafe to the south, the ¨Viva Managua¨ spray painted wall to the west and the main street to the east. Even with those warnings, the robust and friendly guard in the hostel courtyard insisted on walking me to dinner each evening and even walked with me to buy a water at the pulperia one night.

Lest this turn into a short novel, I´ll save the details and explain that I spent two days struggling through immigration procedures at the US Embassy and the National Immigration Office. The very bi-lingual Embassy was a breeze. I sat in air conditioned offices staring at strange almost lifesize photos of Bush and Cheney. The staff at the Embassy took on worried expressions when hearing that I was traveling alone, but were somewhat relieved to see on the copy of my passport that I was in fact 27. I think they saw my blonde ponytail and ever-present retainer and wondered what high school abroad program had dropped my lost soul in Managua. The Immigration Office was a different story entirely. With all of the forms, signs and instructions in Spanish, I nearly began brainstorming options of careers I could pursue in Nicaragua. While sitting in a crowded waiting room of entirely native Spanish speakers, sorting their own papers and own problems, my hopes of leaving this country anytime soon began to dim. Finally, admittedly after a few more tears and near overly-dramatic collapses onto the linoleum floor, I was granted a departure stamp and was FREE to leave the country. I gleefully head back to my hostel, took my self-appointed hostel body guard next door with me to buy dinner and three beers to go, locked myself in my hostel room, ate shrimp and drank Tona on my bed and watched subtitled episodes of Commander and Chief. It felt like one of the greatest nights of my trip thus far.

In the morning, at 430am I headed to the Ticabus station, boarded a bus south, whizzed over the border and slept....slept well. I arrived home in Costa Rica to many hugs...enough to knock me over. We reinacted the robbery several times in the kitchen and then admired my new temporary passport and my police report. You can´t put a price on feeling comfortable and safe, and as Ulysses insisted, my things are just things. Marlon quietly unplugged my ipod charger as I got ready for bed last night and said, ¨let´s put this away so you won´t think about it.¨ I just smiled, grateful to be back. Heading home today for EASTER EGG HUNT...missed it on Sunday, but excited to surprise the boys when they return from school.

Will take another time to fill you in on my happy travels in Nicaragua. It is a beautiful country. A vastly different country from Costa Rica - authentic and traditional in a special way that Costa Rica perhaps lacks with it´s emphasize on ecotourism. I met amazing people, enjoyed time with special friends - both from home and new acquaintances, found a world famous tour guide boyfriend. You didn´t know I´m dating Berman??? (That´s for Kate and Tim...). Lots of special memories to report, but alas, another time. For now, I am safe, armed with a temporary passport and a learning experience that will last a lifetime.

To all future travel robbers: you may still be able to get my pack, but I know how to get back across the border now!

Love always. Suerte y salud,
Kat