If There’s a Will, There’s a Buey
We were sitting around the living room of the humble home of my friends in Guatuso. Guatuso is in the northern central zone about an hour and a half from the Arenal Volcano, in the direction of the Nicaraguan border.
In fact, it is only about another hour to the border, as the crow flies.
Guatuso is also where you can find Rio Celeste, one of Costa Rica’s seven natural wonders, as well as many other interesting things.
For instance, it is the home of the Maleku Indigenous Reserve and Tenorio National Park. In short, I love the place.
I was with my good friend and partner in many of my “criminal” exploits, Yuri. I don’t mean that in the literal sense, but we did seem to have a knack for getting into some interesting adventures.
And we were about to embark upon one for the record books…
We were contemplating a border crossing in the Peñas Blancas area in order for Yuri to return to his homeland (Nicaragua) and replace a stolen passport. He was hoping to travel with me back to the U.S.
Our friend in Guatuso, Santos, informed us that he had a house on Lake Nicaragua and that perhaps Yuri could cross the border there, pass the night at his place, then take a boat across the lake.
The lake being one of the 10 largest on planet earth, more like a fresh-water ocean, complete with man-eating sharks.
He also told us that we would have to park the car on the outskirts of Upala and walk from there. How far?
Only about fifteen kilometers!
Yuri and I looked at each other and nodded in let’s go for it agreement. Sounded like an adventure to us.
We drove northward to Upala then continued on in that direction until the paved road ended. Another 20 kilometers or so and our friend told us to stop.
Where we stopped was in front of a little broken-down shack with some barefoot kids and dogs running around. He assured me that the car would be safe there. Santos had kindly lent a couple pairs of rubber boots to both Yuri and I, telling us that there would be some mud at this time of the year.
That proved to be a dramatic understatement.
There was no official crossing station where we were going. Only a barely legible sign that read…
Bienvenidos a Nicaragua, tierra de lagos y volcanoes.
To reach the border we traipsed through several kilometers of road that was more like a river of mud, up and over the very tops of our boots.
Just beyond there was a little shack that proclaimed to be a bar.
Well, after the blaring sun and the mud, we were definitely ready to see that.
We ordered a round of Victorias, a Nicaraguan beer made famous in Daniel Ortega’s political slogan, “vamos por mas victorias!”
It was served hot, as there was no electricity where we were and certainly no ice. As we sat and imbibed, a young man approached us and seeing that we were weary travelers, invited us to some horses to make the trip to the lake a little less wearisome.
Sounded like a decent idea.
We followed him to his place, which was a bare-bones shack on stilts with a pair of gigantic hogs sleeping blissfully underneath. His father appeared and the young lad explained our situation. Not too long after that another dude showed up with our rides.
I was the largest of the three, so guess what? Yep, I got the buey. I had never had the privilege of riding one of these creatures. There was no saddle. And the reins consisted of a rope tied around his gargantuan neck. I was assured that the animal was docile and that I would not have to worry much about guiding him, as he already was quite familiar with the route. Yuri, being the smallest of our trio, rode the donkey.
So we proceeded on.
At this point in my Costa Rican life, I was not yet fully aware of the degree of difference there is between life back home in the U.S. and life in this place. But traveling on that road that fateful day brought the picture into stark clarity. These people had no running water (at least not the chlorine-laiden type that runs through U.S. taxpayer-paid pipes), no city sewer system nor septic tank, and no hope of taking advantage of the inventions of Edison or Bell. They lived as primitive a life as I had witnessed personally, up to that point. Yet they seemed relatively happy and content.
The older dude who brought us our livestock accompanied us as a guide. He was a jovial sort who told jokes in Spanish the whole time that I had no hope of understanding. But I laughed along in order not to appear too conspicuously gringo.
That was probably a good idea because it wasn’t but a couple decades before that this whole area was a war zone and the U.S. had unnecessarily taken sides in the affray. And that did not make gringos very popular among the country folk.
So I did what I could to “blend in.”
We stopped at a dilapidated pulperia (small neighborhood store). Santos, our friend, and Yuri went in to buy something, cigarettes I believe. I decided to stay as incognito as possible and not to dismount.
An old man who was obviously about three sheets in the wind approached me and offered a swig from the tin cup that he was drinking. I peered down into the sloshing liquid and even though my brain was screaming don’t do it, I did. The taste was bitter sweet, not all that bad to be honest. I later learned that it was chicha, a home-made corn or fruit-based fermented drink that originated with the indigenous that once occupied the area.
I held the substance in my mouth while the old man blathered on about god knows what. As soon as his attention was directed elsewhere I spat out as much of it as had not already seeped its way into my esophagus onto the ground.
I just did not have the slightest bit of faith that my stomach would withstand whatever might be lurking invisibly inside that concoction.
After a few more hours of dense jungle and with my rear end at this point feeling the wear and tear from the buey’s backbone, we arrived at our friend’s property. I wasn’t expecting a mansion of any sort, but perhaps a tad more than this.
It was basically a shack on stilts.
And stilts were highly necessary because the whole area was surely below “lake-level” and completely flooded in water that almost crested the tops of our boots.
The plan was to deposit Yuri at the lake house to pass the night. Then a neighbor would shuttle him across the lake to a point where he could take a bus on to Managua, the capital city of Nicaragua. Santos and I would head back to civilization.
Before doing so, he had to take Yuri and I for a canoe view of the lake. This was my first glimpse of Lake Nicaragua and it was truly breathtaking in its immensity.
We bade farewell to our little friend, mounted our steeds, and started back towards civilization.
By this time the sun was getting low. That made for a cooler ride, but there was one problem. The blazing sun was obviously too hot for the mosquitoes since on the ride to the lake I hadn’t really been bothered by any. But the ride back was a far different story. They attacked us with reckless abandon. I was convinced that malaria induced delirium lay in store.
The other problem was that I gave all the money I had on my person (about $10) to Yuri. When we arrived at the house where we had previously received our four-legged 4x4s, the host expected us to provide some quid pro quo for his gesture of undeserved kindness. But there was none to be given. Or, at least, none that I was willing to give.
We thanked him profusely and left into the night.
We made it back to the car (yes it was thankfully still there) and drove directly to the nearest cajero (cash machine), then on to a bar that actually offered ice cold beer.
After this very adventurous episode of the tall tales of Costa Rica Guy, I was definitely ready for a few of those.
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