Crossing the Border

As crazy as it seems, I have now been out of the country for three months.  Costa Rica grants Americans an automatic ninety day tourist visa when they enter the country, which I used nearly to the day.  Tomorrow will officially be day ninety for me, but as many of you know, I am chronically punctual, and this apparently extends to visa deadlines.  In order to renew my visa, I simply need to be outside of Costa Rica for more than seventy-two hours.  After that, I´ll reenter with another full ninety days to spend.  When I first came down, I was quite worried about the length of time that my return ticket showed.  Surely the Costa Ricans would be on to me, and know that I fully intended to skip out of the country and skip right back in!  As it turns out, there are people in Costa Rica who have been doing just that for years on end. My probably two or three times is hardly worth batting an eye at. There is some level of gossip circulating that with the elections coming up in February, the visa laws are due to change and become more strict, but given the amount of money that tourism brings to Costa Rica, I´m not putting all that much weight on it.  In any case, the point of all of this is that I am writing to you now from Nicaragua!

I headed out of the country Monday after saying goodbye to my mom and brother (clearly something you´ll hear about in a flashback soon!) alongside a big busload of Nicaraguans.  Having never crossed a border by land before, I was anxious to see what it would be like.  Honestly? Sort of underwhelming.  Lots of coyotes (local citizens offering a range of legal and illegal unoffical services) trying to convince me that their fanny pack stuffed with bills was certainly the most secure way to change my money, lots of long lines, and a sadly dusty and rundown office.

    I did get to witness a clumsy bribe go down, however, which provided enough entertainment to last me most of my time waiting in line.  As I lazily peered outside while waiting my turn, an American outside held an animated conversation with some of the coyotes, and then edged into the office building.  He ambled in what I´m sure he thought was a casual way past everyone waiting in line and stood beside the processing window, shifting his weight nervously back and forth.  And then he waited while the next person got processed.  And the next.  Meanwhile, the coyotes, who I can only assume are not very welcome inside the building, banged on the window from the outside and ethusiastically mimed their wishes both to the American and the immigration employee.  Finally, after about three minutes, the border employee grabbed the man´s papers, slapped a quick stamp on, and shoved them back through the slot.  As I reached the window, a coyote sprinted into the room, flicked a bill through the slot in the glass, and sprinted impishly back out.  I realize this was all supposed to be rather a serious, slick deal, but I couldn´t help but laugh a little.  Especially when, 20 minutes later, I was standing by the American, hearing him explain to a friend that he had paid those guys twenty bucks to get him through and was still standing right there with the rest of us.

Otherwise, the crossing passed a lot like a birthday - I knew that something was different, and that it should seem different, but to me, any real change was intangible as we crossed that imaginary line.  I found a hostel at the nearest travel hub of a town and collapsed gratefully into bed.  What would be different, and what the same, about this new country?