Adrian (from the Netherlands) has been on many long trips with his BMW 1100GS and is great company – his trip log is here

I’ve decided to stop for the night in Tamarindo, Costa Rica. I can’t recommend it to anyone except those that want a mini-Cancun style holiday with surfing. All the shops are US style fruit/smoothie bars, multinational food or hotel outlets, and more non-Spanish speaking foreigners than I’ve seen in a while.  After spending a second day here I can recommend Buon Appetito at the south end of the strip, a restaurant run by an Italian woman where I had the best coffee I’ve had in 7 countries and 3 months or so.  The pancakes were light with strawberries and tropical fruits – well done.  The town has an air of frustrated and bored US/CDN couples airing their grievances publicly, whether about the prices in the supermarket or each other.  The other component are silent surfers who carry a certain stoned disinterest in their surroundings.   Perhaps the Subway sandwich shop is all one needs in paradise.

I forgoed the fancy hotels when I came to town after being informed hautily by a receptionist that it was $70 USD and when I asked if they had anything less expensive she rudely told me It was four stars. So I ended up renting a pretty filthy room in a semi-permanent lodging place where I encountered Sergio the resident Chilean artist.  Sergio’s a decent flatmate although doesn’t shine with his interests in cleaning.

The border crossing should be fairly simple, this one wasn’t.

It took me 4 hours starting at 9am. The steps included:

1) Paying municipal tax and then got across road for a ticket upon entry Nicaraguan side

2) Waiting in line at customs and being told I needed a signature on the ticket from a policeman somewhere outside.

3) Back in line and I’m told I don’t need anything else from Nicaragua. Get stopped to pay $3 USD for fumigation. They must have forgot about it because nobody even splashed water on my tires this time…

4) Go to Costa Rican side and get told to go to customs first for my bike. Customs says go to migracion first.

5) Wait in line for 30 minutes at migration and am told I need an exit stamp from Nicaraguan migracion.

6) 300 meters back to Nicaragua (through checkpoint) and get exit stamp.

7) 300 meters back to Costa Rican migracion where I just push in front of the 200 people waiting and get my stamp from guy playing with his iPhone before doing anything – like handing back my already completed paperwork. No air conditioning and 60 people in the room.

8) Back to customs building – can’t continue, need insurance in other building and copies, but copier is broken.

9) Get insurance $15 USD for Costa Rica and copies of stamp in passport and insurance receipt

10) Back to customes, get everything and am told I don’t need anything else – except a permit to drive in Costa Rica

11) Go 150 meters forward to another unmarked building, wait in two lines (first one incorrect) for 30 minutes. Told there is no stamp on my customs documents.

12) Back 150 meters to customs and get stamp.

13) Forward 150 meters to unmarked building and someone takes pity and says go to the front of the line. Exchange all documents for a printed one.

14) 100 meters forward to checkpoint. Incorrect plate number (A instead of a 4 for the first number on the plate)

15) Back to unmarked building, swearing and sweating. Get new document after short argument about whether it’s a 4 or an A

16) Back to checkpoint. Sorry, last two digits are now reversed (53 shown instead of 35)

17) Back to unmarked building, get new document with correct plates and get cheeky wink from bastard who gave me two wrong numbers.

18) Exit planet idiocy finally and get stopped by two police checkpoints within 20 minutes.

San Juan Del Sur, to Tamarindo, Costa Rica

Gangster and Coca

I went out to drink beer at the Yellowman - an outdoor bar with cheap plastic tables, cheaper beer, and reggaeton music blaring. I had just ordered and beer and while walking past a table of 2 men and a woman one of the men said somewhat offensively to me that I looked just like the singer (from UB40) currently shown on monitor. They soon invited me to there table where it prevailed that one was the bodyguard of the other and the woman was a Gallina in his words – a chicken that would sleep with whatever rooster came along – I was included in this list of potential roosters. I spent several hours being lectured on how I would not be messed with because I was sitting with them, how the bar owner would charge us less, play whatever music we wanted, etc. as my new friends ‘taxed’ the bar and controlled the town.  Cocaine, like throughout much of the isthmus dictate the nightlife, travel patterns, and social tensions of Tela.  It was clear how it was distributed and consumed even while police drove by or watched from passing pickup trucks.

Mayor and Beer

After declining to go with the gangsters to the disco as well as their offers of the avails of woman who normally charge but wouldn’t in my case, I ended up talking to an older man who was with a very drunk pushy fellow who turned out to be the mayor.   The mayor’s role in overseeing these thriving drug gangs seemed to consist of saying incomprehensible things while demanding absolute attention and buying him more beer.  Fortunately for me, after buying him several his handler suggested discretely that he shouldn’t have any more – to which I concurred and made my escape back to the hotel.

Nicaraguan Border Town Transgendered Folks

Waking up with a grogginess befitting such an night I drove diagonally across Honduras to the small border town El Paraiso (which it was, beautiful scenery and reviving twisty roads through pine covered hillsides). The border crossing was exceptional in that it didn’t require 3 photocopies of everything and that a line of two people took 1 hour to process.  So in the dark I wound through the Nicaraguan hills to the first town with a hotel – Ocotal.  While having dinner I was invited to sit with a slightly crazy woman who was moving to Spain – leaving her two children with her parents.  Soon we were accompanied by her friend and transgendered woman who told me that there were at least 30 others (in a town of 13,000) and that this was socially accepted there with no real problems.

Un-bribing Cops

In order to meet Kai in San Jose, Costa Rica and because I’d been to Nicaragua before I decided to drive clear across Nicaragua straight to the southern surf town of San Juan Del Sur.  About 15 minutes en route, a fork in the road, and confused GPS, and a man with his thumb out lead to me driving a policeman 2.5 hours south to the capital Managua.  Buying him a coffee and breakfast seemed only fair to have the fun of breaking every speed limit and traffic rule in existence as we speed down from the mountains to the sweaty plain surrounding Managua.  Not later than 15 minutes after dropping him off I pulled up alongside a car at a stop sign leading onto another highway.  I pushed in front of the car and turned the corner and found myself face-to-face with a policeman sternly waving me over. It was explained to me that I had not stopped behind the other car and that my muscling in was worthy of a 300 Cordoba ($15 USD) fine. I pretended not to speak Spanish, then later demanded to see the law in writing, then handed over my expired license (kept just for this purpose), and then demanded a proper written ticket.  They hummed and hawwed and showed me the ticket book and told me my license would be taken to Managua and that I’d have to pay the fine at the bank and couldn’t leave the country without my license, etc.  I explained this would be an ideal scenario and then they started saying, well it’s completely voluntary but instead i might buy them some refreshments instead for their dutiful service. I suggested 100 Cordobas which was accepted, but when I tried to get out the money to give to them was told that people were watching and might get the wrong idea. Eventually one slyly took the money I held down beside the bike.  They then became chummy and asked me about my trip, the bike, the GPS, etc.  When I was about to leave one shook my hand and told me mucho gusto to which I said I sadly couldn’t return the complement as I had just had to pay them.  He became affronted and stopped me from leaving and I thought I had messed things up worse. Instead he said something to the other cop who then handed me back my money.

Final note on the day, met Adrian, an interesting Dutch fellow on a BMW 1100 with whom I happily spent the day with in San Juan Del Sur trading stories.

Tela, Honduras, to San Juan Del Sur, Nicaragua