We set out at 6:45am, wanting to get an early start and avoid any holiday rush that might come traveling the day before Christmas. We got to the border before 8am and when we got out of the cab, we didn´t see any of the long lines that the Planet had been warning us about and figured that, for once, the book was proving wrong in our favor. Then we turned the corner to walk to the immigration office. Though only 8am, there was a line that ran from the ticket windows, down the length of the building, around the corner down that side, and was spilling out into the street. We quickly took a place in line, somewhere in the middle of the street, and a downpour promptly let loose. We struggled with our bags as we moved the line beneath an awning on now, the third side of the building. We noted that during this mad rush we had lost a fair bit of places in line as people took the opportunity to mis
takenly´move up´during the confusion. From then on, the line was at a virtual stand still.Mike and I passed the hours making markers and predicting when we would reach them. ¨I bet we can make it to the tree (10ft away) in a hour,¨ ¨betcha, we cross that lamp post before ten.¨ Sometimes you need to set small goal to attain the bigger ones. Well, the bigger one was not getting any closer and after hours of standing in the rain I figured it was time to see what was up. I ran up to the ticket booths around the corner and discovered the problem. There was no organized line and it was a virtual free for all. Our line, the one we had been standing in for 2 hours, lead to a single file stream of people that were getting pushed to the wall by all the others, who were just jumping in front and trying to push there way to the window.
Mike and I decided it was not in our best interest to try and cut and waited another hour to cross the corner. By then, the group of cutters had turned into a mob, and no one was moving anywhere. Fights were starting to breakout in the crowd, and the border officials -who, up until now, had been calmly sipping coffee and chatting in behind the ticket window watching the madness- took action. They grabbed one guy and dragged him into the street beating him with there batons. The man, terrified tried to give up, but the police kept hitting him and finally put him in cuffs. This show did little to dissuade the crowd and more pushing and hitting ensued. Mike and I, having been adopted by a group of Nicaraguan´s who felt sorry for us, held our place in line and tried to pus
h forward.Finally, after four hours, I had had enough, realizing that we may never get through. We had another idea. Tica bus, a first class international bus company was known to take care of all the passport business for there passengers. If we could get on a Tica bus, the could, in theory, handle it and save us the trouble. Problem was that all the Tica buses coming to the border were already full, and, by the time I tried to barter our way on, the passport official had come and gone. Finally, Mike had the bright idea that, instead of trying to get a seat, we could just ask them to take our passports, get them stamped and we would walk across. This would be illegal of course and like most illegal activities at the border, it would cost. But after four plus hours in this shit hole, we were ready to pay any price.
When the next Tica Bus pulled in, I approached the driver. He waited for everyone else to get off the bus and then let only me in to negotiate. $20 a passport and we would have to walk across. Fine by us and we agreed. He handed him the money and the passports and he disappeared behind the crowd. Yes, I was a little nervous about it, since we really couldn´t go to the authorities if he pulled any tricks, but you have to understand how desperate we were to get out of there. He reappeared
moments later and said the inspection official would be by later. He then motioned for me to come back on the bus and again we had a private conference, in which he told me that, for a price, he could be persuaded to give us a space on the bus all the way to San Jose. This seemed like a godsend to us and we agreed. Little did we know that, space did not mean seat and when we got our passports back and boarded the bus he told us that we would have to stand in the back and duck down when we crossed the boarder patrol. OK, so now had had our passports illegally stamped and were sneaking across the border. Not wise, but still a better option then the never ending lines at the Nica border.Once past inspection we had to disembark at the Costa Rican side and go through there migration office. We were preparing ourselves for another mob, but found nothing of the sort. We got out, qued up in a line, separated by partitions, where one officer stood watch and were through in less then 20 minutes. I couldn´t image why the Nicas did do the same. They had the personnel, and we saw the partitions... boxed up in a corner of an office. We were across! But, there is no rest for the weary, and for the next five hours Mike sat in the isle by the bathroom and I sat perched atop a diaper changing shelf at the back of the bus. We didn´t even care, we were just happy to be across. The moral of this story is its amazing what a length of rope and a guy in a uniform can do to create order out of chaos.
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