In Which Amalia And Chelsea See Some Nicaraguan Monkeys

WE SAW THE MONKEYS. They are trapped on an island and run to the tour boat because sometimes boats mean food. One monkey had a baby. They will never leave that island.

Granada, Nicaragua, aside from having the most rhythmic and beautiful name, is a rhythmic and beautiful city. It was built in the 1500's by the Spanish colonialists and has been burned to the ground by pirates over seven times in it's esteemed life. 

We climbed to the rafters of the bell tower in the Merced cathedral. The view was enchanting. 

Granada reaches me in a way the resorts cannot. Granada knows something.

In Granada, men hiss at you. Understand that this is the beginning of a short list of complaints about Granada.

I was looking for an ATM and I walked past a young boy and a few adults. Young like five. The boy yelled, "Hey, Mami!" Since he was barely out of diapers, I assumed this was in reference to his actual mother. It was not. He started hissing and making kissing noises at me. The toddler. The toddler did that. THATS A CULTURAL PROBLEM, NICARAGUA. Your infants do not need to be harassing 24-year-old people.

End of list. 

We met our friend Daniel, whom we'd hung out with in Liberia, and got to spend time with him and his traveling companions, whom I adore. We got cheap cheap cheap delicious Cuba Libres (extra lime) at a gringo bar with the Daniel crew and our favorite Monkey Tourers. It was, all in all, a wonderful evening. I quite like Granada.

Monkey Count: 4.5

In Which Amalia And Chelsea Ride Horses, Zip Line, Watch Soccer, And See No Monkeys.

Today, we were shipped to a corner outside of Rincon De La Vieja. I feel that this particular monkey tour was really hitting the natural wonders angle in their advertising and is, in practice, exploring the would-you-like-a-beer-and-a-towel angle. We didn't hike up the volcano. We haven't really done anything Costa Rica specific yet.

We rode horses up a huge hill to a twelve part zip line canopy tour... I guess that was more specific than the whitewater rafting. It was fun. What you'd imagine it being. I don't know. Many "high adventure" activities in this context ultimately feel clinical. The workers are quite bored with us, so when something is genuinely amazing or exciting, it's squashed by the cloud of apathy seeping from the nearest tan polo.

What was genuinely amazing today, and without price tag, and without bored twenty-something guiding me through it, was getting to watch Costa Rica play the Netherlands in the (outdoor sprawling gazebo of a) hotel bar.  Just us and the staff. They closed everything for the game.

I loved it! I love soccer now and everyone was yelling and I learned three swear words! It was sad when they lost, but everyone stood up and applauded and they were so proud of their boys. I saw this a little in England during the Olympics... Seems like less competitive teams from smaller nations get loved on a lot more by their fans. Whereas we're ashamed of our teams if they come in second. 

I snuck away from the group to check out one of the resort's hiking trails, which was beautiful. Sometimes the tree roots grow around the trunk like lattice. 

Tomorrow, we go to Nicaragua.

Monkey Count: 0

In Which Amalia And Chelsea zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Alright, listen. I want to say stuff about today, but Chelsea and I got massages and I don't know how much stamina I have before sleeping. 

We went whitewater rafting. Some of you may remember the canoe disaster of '13, but probably not as vividly as I do, and truthfully, being in rapids was... challenging. But fun. I saw a sloth in a tree eating a leaf.

Guys, we're at a resort? It's... Something feels gross about it to me. So much wasted space and so many resources used for so few and such boring people. 

I like two other members of the monkey tour. They're from Texas and they snuck cheap beer into the Hot Springs and are just generally actual humans. They might travel with us a little after the monkey tour. The guy of the two got a massage with us and we called it Chelsea's bachelorette party.

Monkey count: 0

In Which Amalia And Chelsea Go Swimming, Are Right, And Arrive For The Tour.

We left the hostel at nine and spent the morning swimming in a waterfall. 

The Spanish word for 'waterfall' is catarata, which is fun to say.

The first was enormous. I climbed into the spray and it felt like I was being thumped in the head with heavy pillows.

We got confused and the Canadian boys moved slowly, so it was a while before we made it to the second, smaller waterfall. Off of which we wanted to jump.

I asked a swimming man how to jump it, and he said he didn't know, but a boy nearby seemed to. We asked for his help. Actually, what we said was,

Tu primero.

Darling Juan is probably 14. 

He swam Chelsea and I to the base of the falls (boys were still onshore, drinking and pretending they weren't nervous about jumping).

Juan climbed and helped pull me up. Chelsea decided to wait a while.

Juan and I jumped from low, then a little higher, but when I asked about the top, he said,

Es peligrosa.

He looked scared. 

The Canadians swam out and immediately stormed the top rocks. Juan hesitantly followed.

They jumped.

I jumped.

Finally, with much trepidation, Juan jumped.

We cheered, and he grinned.

Later, we saw him with the man from earlier.

Es tu papa?

Silence. A confused nod from the father.

Chelsea said,

Wait. I think you just called that man a potato.

And indeed, I had.

The final stop of the day was Ocotal Beach, black sand bordering the Pacific. Renowned sunset views. Long, long car ride. 

In the end, there were too many clouds to see the sun. I went for a walk along the beach. The sand felt like velvet. I played chicken with the waves.

When I came back to the group, a fight had broken out.

I'm just saying, no one needs to see a full-grown man in a tutu. 

Chelsea is a human rights activist and the Canadians were saying very stupid, illogical things. It was messy. Finally, Steve called a truce and we drove home in some kind of silence, the Montreal boys speaking rapid French in the front.

Later, on our bus ride to the eerily posh hotel where we meet our group tomorrow morning, Chelsea said,

I really didn't start it.

But I would have been proud if she had.

Tutus for everyone.

In Which Amalia And Chelsea Arrive In Liberia And Make Some New Friends

We were told that the free breakfast would be good. They said that. What they did not say was five kinds of homemade bread, fresh fruit, delicious rice with eggs, beans, potatoes in huge silver vats, real passionfruit juice and, inexplicably, tiny slices of gourmet chocolate cake and other impossibly small delicacies. 

We were, needless to say, pleased with our hotel.

Our ultimate goal today: Get to Liberia, where our monkey tour starts. 

In total, we must cross San Jose, navigate the bus terminal, voyage through the mountains, land (mapless) in Liberia, locate a hostel, and procure lodgings.

It seems unrealistic.

1. Cross San Jose.

Avenieda 7 spans the city from north to south. We see El Parque National, with it's drooping bird-of-paradises. We see La Casa Amarillo, a colonial leftover. And then, there's REAL San Jose. Brightly painted tin roofs, rotting food in the gutter, men staring you down and winking caddishly, broken glass, barbed wire.

2. Navigate The Bus Terminal.

La Pulmitan! A mirage after our botched but charming encounter with a cocos frios saleswoman! Our bus terminal is in sight.

Cuando es la proxima bus para Liberia?

A las doce.

Bueno. Dos... Um... Tickets.

Our bags are too big, but we jam them where our feet should go because the guidebook said not to leave them, even for a bus ride.

3. Voyage Through The Mountains.

Here we go. The bus ride is constant curves and vistas. Ravine, cliff, mountain, river. Ravine, river, forest, mountain.

We read from our Spanish phrasebook and quiz each other.

There are two beautiful young people next to us.

Ah! A field! Un campo! 

I say.

Y esta es un caballo!

I say.

The young boy turns to me. 

No,

He says, in English,

Those are cows.

Daniel and Isabella are word-perfect. They're cousins from San Jose, probably 13 years old. Their grandpa lives in Miami. They've been to Miami.

They play an English-language game on Daniel's iPhone and sing Christmas carols in English under their breath for over an hour.

Xhave yourself a merry leetle chreesmaaaas...

I love them and will for all time. I grinned the whole ride.

4. Land (Mapless) In Liberia.

We are shocked at our success.

Daniel, is there a downtown?

Yes, but it's... How do you... Ugly.

We find a Soda (cafeteria) immediately outside the bus station. It is delicious and the woman speaks only Spanish with us. We are in heaven.

5. Locate A Hostel.

We ask for directions. We get three different sets. We walk to the highway in confusion. The hostels, in actuality, are only four blocks from the bus station.

6. Procure Lodgings.

Steve, the bro from Toronto (Canada has bros??) goes with us to get bug spray. Other Daniel is from Los Angeles. We drink rum and mango juice in the backyard. We learn that lizards chirp.

Juan Paulo joins us. Juan Paulo is from Costa Rica. He only speaks Spanish. Chelsea and I speak to Juan Paulo in Spanish from 8 to 12.

He has to stay in hostels because of low salary but everyone else always speaks English and his conversations are short. He has an eight-year-old daughter and takes off his wedding ring during a trip inside. He asks where my boyfriend is.

He asks how we can travel without our boyfriends and not be afraid.

I tell him if I were afraid, I wouldn't get to live. I am angry and sad.

Two men from Montreal show up. Jesus, the hostel owner, pulls Chelsea and I aside.

Ladies, you know the big waterfall?

Yes.

They have a car.

We befriend the new Canadians. Tomorrow, we will go to the big waterfall and return in the evening to meet the rest  of our monkey tour group.

This, then, is backpacking.

Mealy Cyrus

This was in my hair this morning.

It's a mealy bug.

In Which Amalia And Her Friend Chelsea Arrive In Costa Rica

Our flight was at 5:15 am. WHO DOES THAT? And in Chicago, renowned mass transit mecca, that means the trip starts at 2:30. AM.

There was a terrible storm the night before and we hoped our flight would be delayed, but it wasn't, and we are ladies outside of time, so 45 minutes after we HAD TO LEAVE, we called an Uber (basically an underground cab service).

The driver of our heavily perfumed motor coach was named Raoof. Raoof was pleasant and competent, and he'd been driving all night, through the terrible storm, in his sweet little Altima.

We were making decent time and chatting pleasantly until Meechum, near the River Road exit. Then traffic stopped because the road was flooded. We started panicking as the minutes crept by, and I started using bike logic to find alternate routes, and ultimately we were proclaiming our doomed trip, but Raoof stayed calm and rational.

No, ladies. Do not worry. You will fly today.

 

And that magnificent man was right. We forded the huge pond and were golden.

Eight stiff, tense, weary hours later, we arrived in San Jose, Costa Rica, greeted by yelling cabbies and thick, rich winds from the mountainous rainforest. 

Our hangriness almost got the best of us, but I, personally, was shocked into silence by the landscape. And after we got some gallos pintos y huevos con tomate and agua frescas in our bellies, everything seemed manageable.

We've basically spent the day walking around, drinking and eating all kinds of fruit, accosting people with broken Spanish, and I think I bought a bottle of pure DEET? Woof. Raoof. 

Tomorrow brings Liberia and the start of our tour. 

OUR MONKEY TOUR.