In the beginning was the word and the word was idea. And the idea was good. Or so it seemed. Perhaps it was not all good as many ideas are often found to be. And it came to pass and the idea became reality....
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When we conceived and implemented the idea of moving to Costa Rica, it had been for some time already that Andy and Micah had been discussing a father/son motorcycle trip across country. Since we needed a way to get Duncan here as well as some of the stuff we thought we needed, the idea of them driving here morphed into reality and the panther, a Ford F350 with a crew cab, entered our lives and replaced the Harley of their dreams. As the trip grew into reality the truck gave birth to a trailer and the trailer was filled with supplies for the Nicaraguan mission work done by the Methodist conference of churches. And off they went from this photo taken above on July 18, '08, Micah and Andy and Duncan, on their great adventure driving to our new home here and causing too many geographically challenged folks to scratch their heads with wonder at how you can drive to an island. And what an adventure it was! For 6 days they drove across our fair land listening to tales of pre-election woe and discontent with the economy and leadership of our country, stopping at an endless array of "business closed" signs and entertained by fluctuating fuel prices which declined with latitude.
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They arrived in post-hurricane Dolly Texas to find no room at the inns, which were overflowing with evacuees. It took three days to convince the friendly Mexican customs officials to let them pass into the land of tacos and federales. Here they began their affair with border crossings and armed lovers who stopped them over 20 times in 3 days to fully enjoy their caresses and attempt to extract the sweet kisses of pesos to their extended hands. They had hoped to worship at the crumbling feet of its ancient temples but were only given a 5-day, $500 Visa so had to rush right past the ancient Gods to the begging arms of the colorful Guatemalan keepers of the border. There they managed to cross for half the price and were granted a 3 month stay in that land of bargains waiting to fill their trailer with beautiful embroidered cloth and cheap trinkets which they did not desire even from the pleading round eyes of beautiful black haired five year old girls with piles of rainbow colored scarves on their heads.
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It was raining and they rushed through in a day to El Salvador, which lie before them previously unconsidered with perhaps a negative connotation. The border crossing cost only $10 and became the surprised sleeping favorite country and day of the trip with a beautiful coastal highway overlooking basalt bluffs and tunnels opening to the rugged shoreline below and quenching breezes of the Pacific on their steaming skin. El Salvador swept the "best of" award categories, winning for the easiest and most civilized border crossings as well.
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The next day they crossed into Honduras which should have been only a one or two hour trip across its 60 miles of highway but, like many such places, tried to make the most of what little it had. It ended up taking a full day and $450 split between the two borders with a Honduran official escort who shall not be named and was given the seat of honor, in the back next to a drooling Duncan, demanding his own payment of $40 for the ride with no discounts, thank you very much. Arriving at night in the no-man's land that lays between countries they were forced to sleep in the cab of the truck, swatting mosquitoes all night until the customs officials had their morning coffee and fill of gallo pinto and opened up for business. This night won the award for the worst night of the trip as they were awakened continuously to the sounds of busses emptying their passengers into the parking lot around them. These travellers, in turn, unabashedly emptied their bowels and bladders on the pavement around them as well.
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The next day they drove to Managua and were relieved to see the joyful faces of the Methodist mission workers who emptied the trailer of its supplies with many smiles and gave them a bed and bowl of water for the night. There they had their most hauntingly educational day when they were given a tour of selected highlights of the city, including the vast, teeming dump built on the remains of old Managua which was leveled by the earthquake of 1972 and bulldozed towards the lake, filling in the wetlands with the palpable spoils of its memories where once egrets and herons nested to the distant disco beat. Here over 10,000 citizens lean on their flimsy hold on life together in zinc and cardboard houses, squabbling for the first fetid spoils to fall off the overflowing regurgitation of their daily bread, the abundance that floweth from the garbage trucks. This was not the first sighting of such abject poverty for Andy, but it was an eye and awareness opener for Micah. But even for Andy, what set this "one man's trash" neighborhood apart was the sheer size of its desperation and the fact that it was recognized as an acceptable suburb by the government who provided electricity and water for a fee to its garbage filled streets where babies crawled through ankle-deep refuse, flies fighting for prime nesting spots on their faces, while their ancient older siblings searched through broken glass and putrid smells for a tiny reusable piece of wire or metal and their fathers struggled under their light-weight burdens of oversized clear plastic bags filled with recyclable everlasting plastic from our transplanted consumer economy which has allowed their neighborhood to flourish and grow.
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Built back into a high hill overlooking this shame of civilization sits a shiny new US Embassy, recently completed for hundreds of millions of US taxpayer dollars, strategically situated for its perception of safety. Safe, perhaps, from the wrath of the trash town citizens who are temporarily blinded below by the reflection of the sun off its shiny white facade with tinted one-way windows in their dismal downturned eyes. There our ambassador sits high and secure on his hill in his clean office overlooking the putrid pea green polluted waters of Lake Managua and the smoking volcanoes in the distance, his view sullied only by the humanitarian recycling project which lies in the space between, praying the sun is never darkened long enough for their searching eyes to turn upwards towards the heavens or him.
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The next day they left for the welcome sight of the Costa Rican border with an empty trailer and welcome addition of Miguel onboard to help smooth out their last border love affair. They had the haunting memory of those dump dwellers in their brains but also the vision of the sewing projects and school and health supplies left behind in the helping hands of the mission workers. The crossing was smooth and cost $25 of actual fees. Andy had no idea how much time he was destined to devote to this border place called Penas Blanca. For now they were content to look only as far as the heaping plates of filet mignon and fish which lie within a fork's reach before them at the Happy Snapper, offering a burnt cigar offering to the Gods of the Pan American Highway left behind them. They happily pulled into the clean linens awaiting them at Hotel Sugar Beach and put the Panther in park, jumping into the pool and washing off the 9 days of Central American dust that had accumulated on their skin. Each floated under the wisdom of the stars above with memories of too many guns and tortillas tucked safely behind them.
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The word was idea and the idea became history.
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K3
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