The La Cuenta Quandary

After a difficult night in the cockroach infested hotel in Los Chiles, we didn´t need to be asked twice to leave. An interesting border, Los Chiles, would require us to check out of Costa Rica, hop on a boat through the jungle to the swampy, hot and evidently isolated town of San Carlos.

The boat, although unsurprisingly late, which mattered little as we were in no rush, ambled down the large river lined with trees, vines and howler monkeys keen to let us know they were there. The boat was packed with locals who, it seemed, had some kind of competition on who could throw the most un-biodegradeable items into the river before hitting port. This was a dreadful thing to watch as so many forms of wildlife existed in this expanse of an ecosystem, and the locals seemed to think that waiting for a bin was just too much effort. One thing, which has been extremely great to see, is the fact that fellow travellers never litter, although contrastingly the people who have to live in these environments seem to think that lining their riverbeds, roadsides and nature reserves with crisp packets and bottles.

When arriving in the shanty-esque port we paid our entrance fee for Nicaragua, and went off to find a hotel. The first hotel sounded cheap and we went to throw our bags in the room. Upon opening the door we at one noticed the rat shit and ants all over the bed. Unsurprisingly we left promptly. With our bags in tow we popped to the port to find that the next boat to leave the totally isolated town (to the Island of Ometepe) was in two days and that there was no ATM in town, which posed a rather serious issue: Emily and I only had $40 between us. Luckily we found a hotel that accepted visa and had rooms with a fan, bed and little to no visible rodent excrement. It was perfect.

The days passed slowly, with very little to do other than sweat, shower and wander around the town, which in spite of its shabbiness had a certain charm. The locals were clearly suffering from a much more serious and long term La Quenta Quandary, the first sign of which being the many locals hanging around doing little at 11am on a Tuesday. Aside from fishing there appeared, 0ther than local subsistence trades, to be few possible jobs to hold up the isolated local community, yet the locals seemed outright friendly, warm and happy to chat about whatever subjects a local and scraggy traveller usually converse on. By the time we had gradually warmed to the already warm, rundown town, we boarded a 10 hour ferry up the lake to the island of Ometepe where adventures, scenery and poignent hangovers were awaiting.