The other day my son, Jack, and I were exploring the world on Google Earth. “Daddy, is that a volcano,” he asked as we passed over Mexico. “It is, but let me show you a volcano in Costa Rica that your mother and I climbed.”We closed in on Arenal, an active volcano that looms over Fortuna, a small town in the north of the country. I was reminded of the trip we took nine years ago (that's me part way up the volcano).
Below is part 1 of that adventure.
On a map, everything in Costa Rica looks deceivingly close. And so we staggered off a bus in the border town of Los Chiles, after a seven-hour journey that included two buses and an indiscriminate number of stops along the way. If there is a system to when Costa Rican buses stop to let passengers off, or take on others, I never figured it out. Standing by the side of the road, people would wave down the bus in what seemed like the middle of nowhere. And likewise, passengers would call out to the driver to let them off in equally remote places.
We found ourselves in Los Chiles, because when we looked at a map, it appeared close to Fortuna, where we had spent the previous night. There are two main border crossings between Costa Rica and Nicaragua. Most travellers use the crossing on the Pan American highway, near the country’s west coast. The other access point between the two countries, and the one less frequented by foreigners, is at Los Chiles, a small town on the Frio River.
Los Chiles, with its many rundown, wood buildings, had the feel of a border town. It seemed less a destination, and more a stopping point on the way to somewhere else. For us, the somewhere else was Granada, Nicaragua’s oldest Spanish city, and graced with many colonial buildings. The city rests at the northern end of the mammoth Lake Nicaragua. Our research suggested that a short boat trip down the Frio would bring us to San Carlos, in Nicaragua, and from there a catamaran would whisk us across the lake to Granada. It seemed easy enough.
Looking around at the sparse amenities that Los Chiles offered, my wife commented that she was glad we weren’t spending the night there. Someone directed us to the Immigration office, where we had to report before leaving. We waited in the sultry heat for close to an hour until the office opened. And with the kind of promptness not necessarily accustomed to in this part of the world, it opened at one o’clock, as the sign promised. The officer took a few dollars from us, stamped our passports, and directed us to the river.
A long, narrow, wooden boat, with an outboard motor attached to the back was waiting, and we were waved aboard. The boat carried about 20 people, most of whom were Nicaraguans travelling home after working in Costa Rica. The river was muddy, and flowed at a languid pace. Dense jungle rose up from the banks. After thirty minutes, we came upon a small wooden shack, set high above the river. A large Nicaraguan flag moved lazily in the tropical heat. Six men, most wearing army fatigues, stood idly. One of the men looked menacing, and carried a large gun. It was the Nicaraguan border patrol, and I couldn’t help but think these guys must have drawn the short straw to be posted at such a remote location.
One of the men sauntered down to the river as our boat pulled alongside a small dock. The man with the gun kept his eyes trained on us, while his colleague spoke to the operator of our boat. Speaking in Spanish, we couldn’t understand the conversation, except when the soldier pointed at us, and the boat operator said, “Canadian”. The soldier smiled, saluted us, and with that our boat pulled away and continued downstream. The jungle soon gave way to marshy lowlands, and we passed small homes, built on stilts above the river. Large egrets soared overhead, while others were perched high atop the trees. The river emptied into the wide, open waters of Lake Nicaragua, where we could see our destination, San Carlos, in the distance. To our right, the San Juan River carried water from the lake to the Atlantic Ocean. In fact, engineers had once considered building a trans-American canal between the Atlantic and Pacific here, but political instability, forced them to build the canal further south, in Panama.
From the river, it was hard to get a sense of San Carlos. Small, wooden buildings backed onto the river. It was mid-afternoon when we arrived, and we knew that the hovercraft to Granada would have already left for the day, but we were content on staying the night in San Carlos, and would take the ferry across the lake the following morning.
We scrambled onto the dock, went to the Immigration office, and handed over our eighteen-dollar entry tax. When asked, we told the officer, with knowing assurance that we were going to Granada. “But the boat has already left,” he said. “Then we shall go tomorrow,” we replied with confidence. As our conversation unfolded, it became clear that there was no ferry service the following day, and maybe not the next day either. Not wanting to believe this information, we picked up our bags, shook off some pesky kids offering to help us, and continued through a narrow walkway that led to the town’s main street. We walked through the dusty streets. Flies and other bugs flew up in our faces, as our feet disturbed them from feasting on discarded fruit peels and other bits of garbage. It was a surreal experience as people stared at the gringos that had come to their town. Maybe they were simply curious, or maybe they wondered why we had taken the road less travelled.
The mid-day heat was wearing on us, and since we were probably going to have to spend at least one night here, we decided to look for a place to stay. We pulled out our guidebook, which suggested the only clean place was the Cabinas Lykos. As luck would have it, not more than a few feet in front of us was a large painted sign with an arrow pointing toward that hotel.
We climbed a set of stairs, and stood at a small reception area. It was dark inside, except for the light that radiated from a television that sat on a table in the middle of a large sitting area. Soon a woman appeared. Her English was only slightly better than our Spanish, but she knew enough that we were looking for a room. The small, fifteen-dollar a night room fronted the darkened sitting area, where we saw the television. Two single beds separated a narrow space that led to the bathroom. Aching for a shower, I turned the taps that were hooked up to a pipe protruding from the wall, but nothing came out. I found someone and not knowing the Spanish word for shower, I acted it out. They went out back, and like magic, water trickled from the pipe.
Tomorrow, the adventure continues
We found ourselves in Los Chiles, because when we looked at a map, it appeared close to Fortuna, where we had spent the previous night. There are two main border crossings between Costa Rica and Nicaragua. Most travellers use the crossing on the Pan American highway, near the country’s west coast. The other access point between the two countries, and the one less frequented by foreigners, is at Los Chiles, a small town on the Frio River.
Los Chiles, with its many rundown, wood buildings, had the feel of a border town. It seemed less a destination, and more a stopping point on the way to somewhere else. For us, the somewhere else was Granada, Nicaragua’s oldest Spanish city, and graced with many colonial buildings. The city rests at the northern end of the mammoth Lake Nicaragua. Our research suggested that a short boat trip down the Frio would bring us to San Carlos, in Nicaragua, and from there a catamaran would whisk us across the lake to Granada. It seemed easy enough.
Looking around at the sparse amenities that Los Chiles offered, my wife commented that she was glad we weren’t spending the night there. Someone directed us to the Immigration office, where we had to report before leaving. We waited in the sultry heat for close to an hour until the office opened. And with the kind of promptness not necessarily accustomed to in this part of the world, it opened at one o’clock, as the sign promised. The officer took a few dollars from us, stamped our passports, and directed us to the river.
A long, narrow, wooden boat, with an outboard motor attached to the back was waiting, and we were waved aboard. The boat carried about 20 people, most of whom were Nicaraguans travelling home after working in Costa Rica. The river was muddy, and flowed at a languid pace. Dense jungle rose up from the banks. After thirty minutes, we came upon a small wooden shack, set high above the river. A large Nicaraguan flag moved lazily in the tropical heat. Six men, most wearing army fatigues, stood idly. One of the men looked menacing, and carried a large gun. It was the Nicaraguan border patrol, and I couldn’t help but think these guys must have drawn the short straw to be posted at such a remote location.
One of the men sauntered down to the river as our boat pulled alongside a small dock. The man with the gun kept his eyes trained on us, while his colleague spoke to the operator of our boat. Speaking in Spanish, we couldn’t understand the conversation, except when the soldier pointed at us, and the boat operator said, “Canadian”. The soldier smiled, saluted us, and with that our boat pulled away and continued downstream. The jungle soon gave way to marshy lowlands, and we passed small homes, built on stilts above the river. Large egrets soared overhead, while others were perched high atop the trees. The river emptied into the wide, open waters of Lake Nicaragua, where we could see our destination, San Carlos, in the distance. To our right, the San Juan River carried water from the lake to the Atlantic Ocean. In fact, engineers had once considered building a trans-American canal between the Atlantic and Pacific here, but political instability, forced them to build the canal further south, in Panama.
From the river, it was hard to get a sense of San Carlos. Small, wooden buildings backed onto the river. It was mid-afternoon when we arrived, and we knew that the hovercraft to Granada would have already left for the day, but we were content on staying the night in San Carlos, and would take the ferry across the lake the following morning.
We scrambled onto the dock, went to the Immigration office, and handed over our eighteen-dollar entry tax. When asked, we told the officer, with knowing assurance that we were going to Granada. “But the boat has already left,” he said. “Then we shall go tomorrow,” we replied with confidence. As our conversation unfolded, it became clear that there was no ferry service the following day, and maybe not the next day either. Not wanting to believe this information, we picked up our bags, shook off some pesky kids offering to help us, and continued through a narrow walkway that led to the town’s main street. We walked through the dusty streets. Flies and other bugs flew up in our faces, as our feet disturbed them from feasting on discarded fruit peels and other bits of garbage. It was a surreal experience as people stared at the gringos that had come to their town. Maybe they were simply curious, or maybe they wondered why we had taken the road less travelled.
The mid-day heat was wearing on us, and since we were probably going to have to spend at least one night here, we decided to look for a place to stay. We pulled out our guidebook, which suggested the only clean place was the Cabinas Lykos. As luck would have it, not more than a few feet in front of us was a large painted sign with an arrow pointing toward that hotel.
We climbed a set of stairs, and stood at a small reception area. It was dark inside, except for the light that radiated from a television that sat on a table in the middle of a large sitting area. Soon a woman appeared. Her English was only slightly better than our Spanish, but she knew enough that we were looking for a room. The small, fifteen-dollar a night room fronted the darkened sitting area, where we saw the television. Two single beds separated a narrow space that led to the bathroom. Aching for a shower, I turned the taps that were hooked up to a pipe protruding from the wall, but nothing came out. I found someone and not knowing the Spanish word for shower, I acted it out. They went out back, and like magic, water trickled from the pipe.
Tomorrow, the adventure continues
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