Uncle Greg and Aunt Susan generously dropped us off at the bus station in Liberia after dropping off Channing, Whitney and Tony at the airport. It cut out at least one bus ride for us — probably more.

When we arrived, we discovered that the bus left an hour later than we thought it did. So the four of us decided to get lunch together. Despite telling the waitress (and reminding her several times) that we had to eat and leave within half an hour, our food didn’t arrive until it was past time for us to go. We all ended up wolfing down our food in record time and running out to the car.

“We’re the Barkers. This is how we do it,” said Uncle Greg. “We’re late in every country, in any place, at any time…”

We did arrive in time to catch the bus, but we were at the back of a very, very long line of people waiting to board. Lauren went to stuff our bags under the bus. I realized that there were more than 30 people in line in front of us and there were no more seats. People were cramming themselves in, standing up. I was afraid we weren’t going to make it.

We did. Just barely.

Lauren and I were stuffed in the front, holding our bags in awkward positions. I only had one foot on the ground.

The long, slow bus ride was only the beginning. When we finally arrived at the border, we saw a line of several hundred people leading into the immigration office. I saw some Americans and asked them how long they had been in line.

“Five hours!” they griped.

Lauren and I walked past them, around the corner and a little further and finally found the end of the line. The sun was scorching and I was afraid that I was going to get my first sunburn on the trip. Lauren went to find a bathroom and when she returned twenty minutes later, I had only moved a few feet.

Through overheard conversations, we discovered that the Costa Rican border officials had inexplicably closed the border for 5 hours, not processing anyone during a busy holiday weekend.

We were slowly progressing further, but it was getting later and later. Lauren and I were getting nervous — we were supposed to catch a bus on the other side and we were afraid the last one would be gone by the time we got across. And we were definitely going to miss the ferry to Ometepe Island where we were planning on spending the night. There were no hotels on either side of the border.

An ex-pat in front of us named Jerry told us the border was the worst he’d ever seen it. He lived in Costa Rica and every three months he had to cross over to Nicaragua to get his visa renewed. Each time, he go to across the border to a little beach town and hang out for 72 hours — the Costa Rican required time to be out of the country before getting a new visa. He had done this run many times before. We told him that in all of the border crossings we had done around the world, this was by far the worst.

Jerry told us that he was planning on catching a taxi on the other side to a town called San Juan Del Sur. The cab was $20, he told us, and he’d split a cab with us if we wanted. It sounded like a good idea to us.

Nearly three hours after we got in line, we finally made it into customs. The people in the line in front of us, of course, had some problem with their passport and our line was going slower than every other line. Just like the grocery store.

While we were waiting for their mess to get sorted out, we met another Ameican behind us named Jenny. She was headed to Granada to work at a school there, but she too was worried about missing the bus. We told her about Jerry and the taxi and she told us she might like to join us.

We finally made it through Costa Rican immigration… and then had to walk to Nicaraguan immigration. It was a short, half-mile walk and another, much more reasonable line on the other side (after we discovered that we were standing in the locals-only line, which was not labeled).

We finally got through all of the formalities, got a cab, and the four of us were off after several hours of waiting.

The roads in Nicaragua were some of the worst we had seen in months. The road had obviously once been paved but years and years and years of neglect had left crater-sized potholes and ragged groves everywhere. The taxi driver couldn’t actually drive on the road — he had to drive on the side partially in the grass instead.

The drive took 45 minutes, during which the very nice taxi driver stopped twice for Lauren to take photos of the volcanoes in the lake and the rising full moon.

When we arrived in San Juan, the driver let us off at a hotel Jerry suggested, but there was only two rooms left — one for Jerry and one for us. The three of us saw the dingy room with bunkbeds and thought that we’d take a look around for other options.

We found one next door — a smaller room but cleaner with internet downstairs. The three of us booked in together then headed out to find a bar that Jerry said he’d be at — Big Wave Dave’s.

The three of us quickly found the bar, but Lauren and I needed to find an ATM. So we headed out, unsuccessfully visiting 3 different ATMS — none of which worked. We finally decided to part with some of our stash of U.S. dollars and ordered some beers and nachos.

Jenny joined us at a table away from the smoke-filled bar and we exchanged travel stories. Pretty quickly, we all grew tired from the long day and headed back to the hotel to sleep.

Before we left, though we made sure to get a photograph with Jerry.

“Maybe we’ll see you tomorrow?” Lauren asked.

“I’ll be right here.” Jerry responded, “Drinking.”

Then next morning, the three of us went out for breakfast. We found a place on the water and decided to go for it. As we walked in, we heard someone say, “Hola!”

“Hola!” I responded out of habit.

Suddenly I realized I was speaking to a bird. A parrot to be exact. And one that knew how to say “Hola” sounding sometimes exactly like a woman and sometimes like a man. He also knew how to say “Buenos Tardes,” and the three of us spent a while speaking to the bird.

I had to run back to the hotel to grab the camera, so I left. On the way back to the restaurant, I decided to take a detour to check to see if one last ATM would work. The detour took me back past Big Wave Dave’s, and sure enough Jerry was sitting there, on the other side of the bar this time, drinking and smoking just as we had left him last night. (The ATM didn’t work.)

After breakfast, the three of us packed. We all wanted to head to Granada that day, which would mean another rough taxi ride to another town to catch a chicken bus. So we checked out and flagged down a taxi.

The ride wasn’t too bad and soon we were in Rivas. Unfortunately, the next bus to Granada didn’t leave for two hours, so we all hiked over to a restaurant several blocks away. It was so hot, however, that none of us ended us wanting beers (and I was still having Ecuador-stomach problems). Instead we settled on water and Gatorade. I also finally found an ATM that worked just down the street. Now that we had money in hand, we headed back to the bus lot.

Lauren watched as they tied our bags on top of the old school bus (just like the one I’d take home after school) as I unsuccessfully tried to secure seats. I only found one, meaning Lauren would have to stand for the trip.

It took us just under 2 hours to get to Granada, and just as quickly as our bags had been heaved on top, they were given back to us. Now all we had to do was find a place to sleep.