The Good. The Bad. The Ugly.
Taking off and traveling for a year isn’t always full of rainbows, margaritas, and beautiful sunsets. Sometimes, it is just plain full of long bus rides that smell like urine, late night hotels that you later find out of the pay-by-the-hour variety, and showers where your husband has to pour buckets of suspect water over your head while you scrub (while cry-whining) in a moldy non-functioning shower stall.
An adventure may not be an adequate word to describe the three days of traveling we endured from the Pacific coast to 7km off the Caribbean coast, so I am choosing to refer to it instead as a living Hell. You would have too if you imagine Hell as I do – hot, crowded, germy, and covered in layers of pee. Of course, I didn’t take pictures of those thing (I mean, I can start if you so desire..), so here are some photos from our days spent on the road/river/sea.
Our living Hell played out a little something like this:
- An hour bus ride from Granada to Managua
- Two hour wait in a crappy bus terminal
- Five hour bus ride to the small port town/prostitute wasteland of La Rama
- Overnight stay in a brothel that Ryan likened to a run down animal shelter – with no working bathroom or even sink to wash your hand
- 5am two-hour boat ride down a river to Bluefields on the Caribbean coast
- Another stay in a slightly higher class hotel with only a slightly functioning toilet and bucket of water for a shower
- 7am nine-hour boat ride 7 km off the coast to the Corn Islands
- Arrive in paradise
I may or may not have cried a couple of times – so much for my tough exterior (joke). I liked to think I was a stone cold traveler extraordinaire, and still maybe these experiences could crack even the toughest of tough, but the last three days totally spoiled my cover. I like to think I can rough it – but there is definitely a line between roughing it and living in filth, and it was crossed. By a lot. When you can’t relieve your bladder in a bathroom due to pure disgust OR even stoop so low to squat outside, it is a bad situation. A situation suitable for tears, right? After getting off the bus in the prostitute filled La Rama, searching unsuccessfully for a bathroom, having lowlifes grab their crotches and make lude advances as I walked by trying not to wet myself, I sat down on our bed and pitifully cried “Ryaaaaan I haaa-tte th-ii-sss. I ju-sss-st want to-to pppppp-ppp-ppeeee. I wannaaa go ho-oo-oooo-me”.
In the end, we survived. I scrubbed my body with soap three times in one bucket shower, I found a toilet that worked and held my breath, and on the bright side, surely my immune system is just that much stronger now.
Luckily, the destination was indeed an unspoiled paradise, full of turquoise water, coconut trees lining the white sand beaches, and reggae music softly playing in the background while we soaked in the sun and the joy of being freshly in love. And being clean. CLEAN. Oh how clean makes me feel infinitely more in love.
Man, next time I’m taking pictures of the filth so you’ll believe me.