I hate feeling tired at all, but especially when the view outside your window is persistently telling me to feel awake, alive and happy.
I hate that the first three sentences of this post start with the words, “I hate.”
Maybe it’s my newly-rejuvenated coffee dependency and the fact that I’ve only had one cup so far this morning.
Maybe it’s the fruity rum drinks, wine and cerveza from ladies’ night on the town.
Maybe it’s the 5 hours of sleep and the slap in the face when I looked in the mirror this morning and realized why – in fact – they call it beauty sleep, and why – in fact – this applies to me now that I’m 27.
Shit.
So what do I love this morning?
Strange, but I love that it was hard to breathe on our walk to work. Whether it’s from the large amounts of chile pepper fumes I inhaled while making hot sauce yesterday or never-dulling beauty of the view along the way, I don’t really care. I love it. I love it near tears.
I love how happy most of the people here are most of the time – even if we’re usually covered in mud, sweat, mosquito bites or any combination of the 3, it’s really difficult to be unhappy here.
I love that I made one of my favorite hot sauces yesterday with my own bare – actually gloved – hands. And am making another favorite today – one so garlicky that its aroma, one of my favorites in the world, just might cover up the musty smell from my clothes that never quite finished drying after the last wash.
No, I don’t have a photo of my clothes.
But I do have photos of the hot-sauce making process. Unfortunately, they’re on my camera. My camera is at Bec’s place.
I hate that I’m so forgetful.
Shit.
Apparently it’s going to be one of those days. Maybe I should just go get another damn cup of coffee.
As Katie already mentioned here, our trip to the Nicaraguan shore and back was chock full o’ crazy times.
A lot happened in three days (96.5% of it fun) and I could rattle off a lengthy play-by-play of the entire weekend but if we were to skip the polite banalities and be honest with each other here, I think we’d come to the mutual agreement that (a) I don’t want to write all that jazz and (b) you don’t want to read all that jazz.
So, let’s just skip ahead to the part of the post where I break the trip down by the numbers, mmkay?
Mmkay. So here goes…
7 – Number of people in our Nicaragua-bound band of misfits.
175 – Approximate distance, in kilometers, from Bagaces, Costa Rica, to San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua.
2 – Number of hours it took our bus to reach the border between Costa Rica and Nicaragua.
1 – Number of hours it took us to actually cross the border.
8 – Degrees Farenheit the temperature rose as soon as we stepped foot onto Nicaraguan soil.
1 – Cost, in US dollars, of the tasty Nicaraguan beer, Toña (pronounced “TOE-nya”–do not disrespect the beverage by saying its name wrong).
21:1 – Exchange rate for calculating Nicaraguan córdobas to US dollars.
π = (ℓ)-1(t)1(ℓ /t)1 – What the currency exchange rate formula may as well have been, considering my cripplingly bad math skills.
15 – Cost, in US dollars, of our hostel per person, per night.
4 – Number of hostel beds available for our party of seven. (Katie and I shared a double bed and Donovan kept the mosquitoes company in a hammock out in the courtyard.)
10 – Amount of time, in minutes, it took to walk from the center of San Juan del Sur to our hostel.
8 – Approximate number of times someone tripped and fell during the 10-minute walk.
9 – Average rating, on a scale of 1 to 10, of the meals we ate during our three-day tour.
60 – Approximate percentage of San Juan del Sur’s population that were gringo ex-pats with nappy dreads milling around the coffee shops and trying to hock puka shell necklaces on the sidewalk. 30 percent were actual native Nicaraguans (a.k.a., “Nicos” and “Nicas”). The other 10 percent were us.
1 – Number of near-fatal accidents involving a seven-foot-high ledge, unreliable depth perception and poor life choices.
3 – Amount, in US dollars, of the best dang mojito I’ve ever had.
4 – Number of trips taken to the ATM for the last time, seriously.
12 – Estimated median age of the three producers of Survivor we met while eating at a pizza joint in town.
4 – Number of times I tried to get them to tell me which cast member they hate most.
1 – Number of heartfelt renditions of Bette Middler’s “The Rose” Katie was able to tolerate before evacuating the karioke bar.
1,542 – Number of beers consumed over the weekend.
0 – Number of times we swam in the ocean.
28 – Number of immigration forms filled out coming and going across the border.
0 – Number of people in our party who had proof of the exit visa that Costa Rica’s border patrol suddenly decided to start requiring for re-entry into the country.
140 – Amount, in US dollars, we were advised by a Costa Rican border patrol clerk to pay for false documentation to cross back into Costa Rica.
3 – Number of times someone suggested just running for it, man, before Becca managed to charm the clerk into grudgingly giving us all temporary visas.
30 – Amount of time, in seconds after we boarded the bus that it left for Bagaces.
No shoes or shirt? No problem. No exit visa? You’re screwed.
All in all, it was a great trip to Nicaragua and we got to spend it with an awesome group of folks.
And perhaps the most important–yet highly underrated–part of what makes any trip great is: Being able to go home.
We jammed a lot into one little weekend. And we’ll tell you about it forthwith. (Can I say “forthwith,” or is that so last century?)
But first, it only makes sense to introduce our motley crew of fellow travelers.
This is Rebecca. I call her Becs.
Becs is quickly becoming one of my favorite people in the world. And not only because she bought us cookies and knows how to pick the bugs out of pasta. She is the extremely patient mother of two beautiful little boys, is as easy-going as John Mayor after he’s had a couple of blunts, and she had the cajones to pack up her world and move to another country – in a town withouta Starbucks. But the best thing about Becs is that she’s always game for a laugh. You cannot not laugh when you’re around her. And laughing is good for the soul. So by my reasoning, so must be Becs.
As far as I can tell, her only questionable quality is the fact that she married this guy.
This is Aaron. Okay, so maybe he’s all right – even though he tried to lock me into an ATM booth in San Juan del Sur.
*Fingers have been blurred to protect the innocent.
Maybe he’s all right because he’s been giving us a place to live and money for food and might – occasionally – read this blog.
But in all honesty, he’s an extremely creative goofball and we love working for him. He makes a mean torti burguesa (we’ll cover that eventually), has a wicked sense of humor, and – though he’ll hate me for saying it – is incredibly generous. He wants everyone around him to have a good time, and that they do. Oh, and suppose I have to give him credit for being the mastermind behind what Erin and I believe to be a soon-to-be HUGE hot sauce hit. He’s the Mayor of Chile Town, and so far all the citizens seem pretty damn happy.
And I have to admit – he and Becs make a pretty fantastic couple.
Then there’s this guy. Donovan. Donovan started working here a few days before Erin and I arrived, but he’s been to Costa Rica a multitude of times. Donovan thinks he IS Costa Rican. (And judging by the way he already knows everyone in Bagaces, I wouldn’t be surprised.) Donovan does not like to be called Donny. And even though he looks like a hardass, we can always count on Donny – err, Donovan, to make sure we make it home okay. He wants to do good things for the people of this country, and I do believe he will.
Matt (aka. “Matteo”) is another one of the interns working in our office. A gifted guitar player and singer, Matteo makes you want to sit around a campfire cooking s’mores and singing songs. Matteo speaks his own language – a combination fraternity boy/California surfer dude mixed with intellectual college grad/insightful world traveler. One who got arrested for stealing manhole covers in Italy. He looks like a thin Jack Black. No, the guy from Into the Wild. No, Syndrome from The Incredibles. Whatever. Matteo’s a trip – the kind who will make you laugh when you think about something he said days after he said it. And that’s a pretty good way to be.
And finally, our group of 7 wouldn’t have been complete without JJ – or Jota, as everyone here calls him. An extremely talented artist, Jota designed all of the luchadores found on the Chile Town hot sauce bottles as well as the town map. When Jota plays the guitar, he inspires. The music flows, eyes close, and you always have to smile. He’s better than he’ll admit. I already know my memories of his music will be my soundtrack to Costa Rica. He’s lived here for a few years – is half-Guatemalan, in fact – and has big dreams of a beautiful future in Central America. I don’t doubt he’ll make it happen.
So that’s our crazy group of wild gringos. I have tons more to share (and so does Erin), but the obscene amount of photos is going to force us to break this down in parts.
But let me give you the quick Nicaragua weekend summary:
We ate fantastic food.
We drank fantastic drinks.
We met some fantastic people.
And we sampled plenty of fantastic hot sauce.
This weekend we traveled to Nicaragua and came out a little smarter, a little muddier, and a lot more appreciative of coming home to a place where we could throw our toilet paper in the toilet – not the trash.
So we had a slight lapse in posts while we spent the weekend in Nicaragua. Sorry about that. We’ll make it up to you by showing you ALL the fun we had – even though we almost weren’t let back into Costa Rica. Almost. But a sweet-talkin’ gringa and series of bribe requests later, we made it. Dirty, exhausted, and incredibly happy.
So we had an interesting dinner experience the other night.
In an effort to save a little moolah and live more like the locals, we attempted to make rice and beans.
Well. I’m sure this is something that turns out absolutely delicious for those who eat it regularly and have actual… you know… seasonings in their kitchens. But I’ll spoil the ending to this little story by telling you that ours ended up tasting a little more like… um… how should I put this? Paper.
Our very first problem was that I felt it was imperative that I took a nap immediately when we got home. The “nap” turned into 3 hours, and I woke up at 5:00. So what? Even if it takes a couple of hours to cook, no big deal, right?
Wrong.
I first consulted Judy, our gracious host and excellent cook about how we should get started. She explained how she puts the whole onion inside the rice cooker (it actually roasts while the rice cooks so you can just squeeze the onion out of its outer layers of skin when it’s done), along with some diced pepper, garlic, and “other things” – other things we most certainly did not have. She was generous enough to give us several cloves of garlic and some celery leaves to throw on in, and luckily we already had an onion and red pepper.
She showed me how to sort through the beans and pick out anything that had split or any pieces of rock or cement that might have found its way into the bag during processing. (Which I’m told is pretty standard. You know, like bugs in your pasta. Oh we haven’t told you about that? It’s dee-lish.) Luckily, we had a pretty good bag. She then explained that they needed to sit in a pot of water for 2-3 hours to soften up prior to cooking.
Wha?!
That’s right, she informed my dumbfounded expression. 2-3 hours should do the trick. Ok, so that’s still not terrible – then maybe 20 minutes to cook and we can eat around 8:30, right?
Wrong again.
When I googled “how to cook dry black beans,” I learned that not only do you need to soak them for 2-3 hours, but the best way to cook them is at a low simmer for another 2 hours!
WTF. It’s beans. And rice. But apparently it takes longer than Coq au Vin to make without the delicious indulgence of all the fat and calories.
So I went back to Judy, tail between my legs. Um… may I please borrow your pressure cooker?
Sigh. She had to come back over and show us how to use it without burning our faces off, but this drastically reduced the cooking time and eliminated the need for soaking them. Just throw all our stuff in the pot, and a little while later, poof! Beans are cooked.
Meanwhile, the rice concoction smelled delicious.
By this point we were starving, so we threw it all into a bowl and hoped for the best.
And it actually looked halfway decent…
But the taste… Oh, the taste. How do I say this?
There wasn’t one.
In a true moment of ingenuity, Erin suggested we sprinkle it with our salty plantain chips, which proved to be a VAST improvement.
Next time (har-har) we will be investing in some seasonings. And I don’t think I ever want to try Judy’s rice and beans. I would probably cry.
I spent the next morning walking around the yard reassessing this whole “budget” situation and trying to figure out whether we could afford to live off of boxes of macaroni and cheese for the next two months.
When I realized there’s no possible way, I felt frustrated for a second.
But only a second.
Because it’s really difficult to stay frustrated on a morning when – even with bland beans still percolating in my stomach – the world outside my bedroom looks like this:
Today, Katie and I stuck our pale, bugbite-riddled city legs in the stirrups and went on a trail ride with our awesome new girlfriends Becca, Maria, and Wiebke.
We were thrilled at the chance to get to gallop freely through the Costa Rican pastures, feeling the wind in our hair, the sun on our skin and the extremely hard saddle under our butts.
The horses were maybe less thrilled.
Ok, and maybe Katie wasn’t exactly ‘thrilled’ either.
But I was. And this is my post, so I can remember it however I want. So, hah.
It turned out to be a truly fantastic day. At seemingly every bend in the trail, we’d come across something that made me so eternally grateful that I’d decided to grab my camera, after all.
Such somethings as this:
And this:
Just keep it movin’, sister.
And this adorable little guy…
whose large, less adorable mom arrived on the scene with a quickness. Fortunately, she ended up being a really good sport about us camera-stalking her child.
We even spotted capuchin monkeys!
There he is!
Ok, technically Weibke did all the spotting. I’m not entirely sure I would’ve known how to spot a capuchin (or even what a capuchin was) even if I’d had a pair of binoculars and a Spotting Capuchins for Dummies handbook.
In the end, we got to see some amazing things and no one was bucked, bitten or trampled.
Even Katie was a happy cowgirl.
It was a supremely fantastic day that we’ll remember for a long, long time to come.
Which is about the amount of time it’ll take us to walk normally again.
Okay. I haven’t taken the camera out much since we’ve been here, because:
a) It’s kind of hard to take pictures with sweat dripping into your eyes.
b) It’s kind of hard to take pictures when it’s raining outside.
c) It’s kind of hard to take pictures when you’re already late to work and sweat is dripping into your eyes.
d) Sometimes I like to see the world with my own eyes – sans sweat – before I try to capture any of it with a camera.
But yesterday our new boss asked me to take some photos of the farm – specifically black and white photos of chile peppers – that he can use for the company website and various marketing projects. I definitely need some more practice, but for me it’s really difficult to capture the beauty here in black and white. The color is the beauty.
So finally, for your viewing pleasure, you can see just a little of what Erin and I see every day.
This is part of the chile pepper patch, where they’re currently growing several different varieties of peppers:
Unfortunately, I didn’t realize that in neglecting to take the camera out our first day here, I may have missed my only opportunity to get a clear shot of the volcanoes that serve as the backdrop of our little town. I can see them from the office window – WHEN they’re not obscured by clouds.
Here’s what it looks like on a clear day:
The peppers themselves are quite beautiful…
…as are their flowers before they bear fruit…
…as well as the rows in which they’ve been planted.
And while the peppers don’t look bad in black and white…
There’s nothing more vibrant in my world right now than a red hot chile pepper.
