Bluefields, Nicaragua 01/20/08-01/21/08

Highlights

• Transportation woes a-plenty
• A boat in the rain

After Managua, I decided to go to the Corn Islands off of Nicaragua's Caribbean coast. To get there, you have to go to the city of Bluefields and either take a boat or plane to Big Corn Island. Rather than simply fly from Managau to Bluefields and continue on to the island, I decided to take the land/water route to Bluefields and just fly back when I was done with my time on the islands. I would just do the land route once for the experience. It ended up being an experience I could have done without. It was all because of the people providing transportation.

Bluefields is a small town on the Caribbean with a small airport. It is only reachable by boat or air. It is the gateway to the Corn Islands. There is not a whole lot of interest in Bluefields other than the airport and ferries.

Details

To get to Bluefields, I had to go by land from Managua to Rama and catch a boat the rest of the way to Bluefields. I took a cab to the bus station, where I knew there was a direct bus going to Rama at 9:00am. I was surprised when the cab driver accepted my reasonable offer of 40 cordobas for the ride. He spent quite a while on the way looking for other fares to share the ride. (In Nicaragua and other Central American countries, they will generally try to get other fares going the same direction. This is not considered unusual.) He did not find any other fares. When we got to the bus station, I paid him his 40 and was informed that I needed to pay him 10 more. After an initial sigh of frustration, I decided that I did not want to have an argument in Spanish over 50 cents instead of catching my bus, so I just gave it to him. It was still much cheaper than I expected to pay. Did I ever mention that I hate taxi drivers?

At most of the bus stations in Central America, there are usually people who will ask you where you are going and direct you to a bus--a surprising case of people in the street out to help you and not just themselves. In Managua, there are guys there who have no interest in you but want to get something from you. I was a bit wary. The woman with the shuttle right next to me asked if I was going to Juigalpa. I said no, and proceded to put on my backpack to find my bus. Then she asked if I was going to Rama. I said yes and she indicated that I should take the shuttle. I asked if it was direct and what the price was. It sounded OK, so I got in. Well, much to my annoyance, I later found out that the shuttle was direct, but it was direct only to Juigalpa, halfway to Rama. I got out there, failed to get a direct bus from there to Rama, and ended up on a very nice but incredibly slow bus there instead. I was fuming. I was so pissed that I did not just get onto the bus I had originally planned to get on. I was really pissed at the thought that I might miss the last boat to Bluefields and have to spend the night in Rama--an apparently seedy town. I kept thinking, "I am really getting sick of Central America. It is time to leave."

I got to Rama in plenty of time for the boats, but as I arrived, it started raining. As with bus stations, boat docks often have people to guide you to the pier and the right boat. A guy saw me heading there and walked with me the rest of the way to the ticket booth. But wait--there were two companies with boats to Bluefields. They were giving contradictory statements about the services. One group was lying, but which one? Or both? I gut stuck with the liars. They said the boat was covered, but it was not. By that point, I just thought, "Screw it. Just get me the hell out of here and get this day over with. If I have to wait an hour for the other company to run the covered boat, I would rather just get wet."

Instead of the boat being covered, the passengers got covered with a sheet of opaque plastic the length of the boat. It was stiflingly hot under the plastic. As the boat moved, I put my head out from under the plastic. I decided that I would rather be drenched with rain than with sweat. As the boat picked up speed, the rain stung my face. I was worried that I might be causing the guy behind me to get wet, so I went back under the plastic.

I had taken the river route rather than fly so that I could see the scenery. All I was seeing was the inside of a sheet of plastic. It wasn't even the rain or the plastic that pissed me off. It was just the fact that I was lied to and screwed over yet again. At that moment, I just wanted to get the hell out of Central America and never come back.

After just a few minutes, the rain stopped and we took off the plastic. As he sky brightened, so did my mood. I think I even smiled.

The scenery was basically just jungle lining the river. It was not much different from Rio Dulce in Guatemala. The ride was quite rough in spots. My butt hurt. Even in the smooth spots, the boat was constantly bouncing up and down.

It was getting dark when we arrived in Bluefields. I had decided to not bother with a hotel search and just go to the more expensive option listed in Lonely Planet. As I got off the boat, I practically ran to avoid dealing with touts.

I walked directly to the hotel with no trouble. On the short walk, I definitely did not get the warm fuzzies about Bluefields. I decided I would just eat in the hotel tonight and take care of any business in the morning rather than walk around Bluefields at night.

The hotel restaurant was out over the bay and was quite nice. It was so darkly lit that the waiter had to bring a flashlight for me to read the menu. While eating, some little girl kept screaming for quite a while. I don't mean crying, I mean shrieking just for the fun of it. Neither her parents nor anyone else made any move to get her to stop or even seemed to notice that she was doing it, reaffirming my theory that in Central America the existence of noise is not acknowledged.

My sleep was interrupted a couple of times in the early morning by dogs. Like all of Central America that I have seen so far, stray dogs are an infestation in Bluefields.

I needed to run errands before heading to the airport to fly to the Corn Islands. I did not know if I would have internet access on the islands, so I booked my return ticket home. I have one more month of Central America before I fly home from San Jose, Costa Rica. It may be too long, considering I have only been gone for 3 months, and that as of this day, I am officially burnt out on Central America.

After searching and asking around, I found the post office and finally mailed the photo CDs back home to Ganesh.

I packed up and headed to the airport to fly to Big Corn Island. Flagging down a taxi was surprisingly hard. There were zillions in the street, but they were taken and heading the other way. When I finally found someone willing to go to the airport, I asked if he would do it for 10 quetzales (the cheapest suggested fare to the airport), and he said yes. No haggling. We picked up another passenger on the street, dropped her off (I didn't see her pay) and off to the airport, which is a very short ride.

I bought my ticket and waited for about 3 hours, which was when the next flight left. The airport is tiny and the only other people there for the first hour or so were people who worked there.

Before I could board, I had to take the spoon out of my carry-on. Apparently, spoons are dangerous. I had another spoon in my big bag, so I just threw away the one in my backpack.