Or so I thought.
After recent experiences during Semana Santa (a week in which Latin American countries and Spain celebrate Easter, Jesus, resurrections, and other things I should probably understand better), I am considering the possibility that Murphy's Law is actually a real phenomenon that emanates, with cataclysmic results, from the heart of Nicaragua out into the world. I am imagining the pattern as something akin to a shock wave, thus our misconception in the United States that Murphy's Law is just a saying. In reality, the force of Murphy's unrelenting, terrible Law is greatly diluted by the time it reaches the US. In the context of our substantial wealth and resources, we are able to dismiss ML, but Nicaraguans (and anyone else who might find themselves trapped in Murphy's epicenter of doom) have to face the beast on a daily basis, a beast which appears to grow in wrath during the holy week of Semana Santa.
To understand my recent struggle with the all encompassing plan-wrecker that is Murphy's Law, you need to have an idea of what all I had set out to do during my Semana Santa free time. With five days to do whatever we felt like in Nicaragua, my good buddy Julian and I decided to pack in a solid mixture of relaxation and adventure. In the end, we wound up receiving plenty of both, but they were definitely on Murphy's terms.
Our first day of vacation had us making a three and a half hour bus trip to the northern border of Nicaragua in search of a guided canyon tour that we had been told we absolutely had to see to believe. Little did we know, our decision to travel so far would prove fortuitous, as it moved us away from Murphy's vacuum-like black hole of misfortune for a brief period, but our good luck came at a cost.
As is the case in Nicaragua when you lack personal transportation or much money, we were relegated to using a public bus in order to reach our destination. For this stretch of our odyssey Julian and I were joined by two other members of our program; good friends of ours named Katie and Jennifer. After a few months in country, I'd say all four of us were fairly accustomed to the Nica bus experience. That is to say, we were all prepared for a total deprivation of personal space, a bombardment of odors of all makes and models, and the possibility (more like probability) of spending the entire ride standing up. Suffice to say, our expectations were wildly exceeded.
In that the ride to the canyon took nearly four hours (not counting time for checking into our hotel and actually finding the canyon) and that the tour itself was going to last about three and a half, it was necessary for us to get on the earliest bus we could manage. This translated into the four of us stumbling, bleary-eyed, at about six thirty in the morning, onto what would become one of the wildest Nicaraguan bus rides of our lives.
The protocol for loading a Nicaraguan bus is simple; fill to capacity, then repeat. In the end you end up transforming a vehicle designed to transport 75 people (sorta safely), into a 14-ton rolling death-machine, bursting at the seams with around 125 people. With my new-found appreciation of Mr. Murphy's domination of Nicaragua, I have come to view this practice with increasing alarm.
Our first Semana Santa bus was the quintessential example of Nicaraguan public transportation at its finest. The four of us spent the entire ride in various forms of physical contortion. At no point did any of us actually manage to attain a fully upright posture with both feet planted on the ground. It was always some variation of bent-over, due to the weight of other humans pushing into us. At times the bending was so extreme it looked as if half the bus was in the midst of an impromtu appointment with a proctologist. There was simply no room for dignity. This thing was packed so tight that the vibrations of a fart released in the front row could be felt, in all of its flatulent glory, by those situated in the very back. I knew for sure that I was in a less-than-usual situation when I heard my friend Katie cry out that she had been squirted with breast milk and it was running down her leg. Obviously I could not maneuver myself to see the incident but I believed her immediately, as it seemed one in every ten people on the bus was receiving breakfast via boob. I could be exaggerating though. There was, after all, a bag of farm supplies stuffed into the overhead storage compartment that fell on my head. It may have effected my judgment a bit.It is important to keep in mind that the average temperature in Nicaragua hovers somewhere around the mid 90's (Fahrenheit, of course). Thus, I estimate that the temperature in our sauna-on-wheels was probably somewhere in the low 300's, but it could have been as much as a million degrees at some points. The result was a real menagerie of smells. Believe it or not, most of them weren't very pleasant. All these niceties aside, as I mentioned before, this is what we had come to expect. We are living the Nicaraguan experience down here and this is how they roll. Literally. None of this stuff can be attributed to the aforementioned phenomenon of systematic misfortune.
No, Mr. Murphy did not decide to raise his ugly head until what was supposed to be the last fifteen minutes or so of our bus journey. He came in the form of Nicaraguan Immigration officials with tacky sunglasses. Just when it seemed our canyon adventure was within reach, our humid stink box pulled off onto the side of the road. We were promptly boarded by some of the most unofficial looking officials I have ever had the displeasure of crossing paths with. Somehow they managed to single us out as foreigners in the sea of Nicaraguans and requested our presence outside of the bus.
Initially, it was just Katie and I who went outside to see what the gentlemen had to say. I think Julian might have hid behind a cowboy, because he didn't come out with us, and Jennifer took advantage of her Salvadoran and Mexican genealogy to blend in with the Nicas. Surprisingly I was able to block out most thoughts of Nicaraguan jail as I descended the steps of the bus. I figured things would be fine and they'd surely let us go without much a fuss. This would be the first time I underestimated Murphy's insidiousness.
The immigration guys unloaded on Katie and me with rapid-fire Spanish. I believe the stale, recycled air of the bus poisoned the oxygen to our brains because we didn't understand a word these dudes were saying. I just stared blankly and repeated the name of our destination while Katie mauled her backpack for identification. Apparently unable to stomach watching the two of us squirm like worms on the hook, Jennifer (who is fluent in Spanish) cracked open her window to ask our interregators what the problem was. At first she attempted to maintain a "curious Nicaraguan" cover, but as she continued the discussion it became clear that she'd have to come clean otherwise Katie and I would be Nica-screwed (a truly exquisite and uncomfortable form of screwed that is easily inflamed when one lacks a substantial comprehension of the Spanish language).
It was determined that the immigration guys wanted to see our passports. This wasn't suprising. What was surprising was when they told us that the copies of our passports that we were carrying were insufficient identification. It was surprising because the Nicaraguan directors of our program had told us time and again that our copies were all we needed for ID, and moreover, that it was a better idea to carry our copies around instead of our actual, nearly irreplacable passports. Apparently this was false.
Eventually Julian and Jennifer joined Katie and me outside. As soon as the bus was purged of its gringo contingent it resumed its journey, leaving the four us seemingly stranded on the side of random Nicaraguan road accompanied by a handful of less-than-amiable immigration workers and absolutely no idea of what Murphy's Law had in store for us.
With Jennifer's help we learned that the penalty for lacking proper identification in Nicaragua was a fine. It was nothing substantial, about $2.50 for each of us. What was more disconcerting was the fact that we hadn't be apprised of this information beforehand. Luckily our captors were more than willing to provide us with a ride the rest of the way to our intended destination, for a price. We agreed to this irresistable (literally) offer and hopped in a beat-up hatchback of some sort with a young immigration worker and proceeded on our quest. Little did we know, this youngster was a willful executioner of Murphy's Law.
As we pulled into the little mountain town of Somoto, where'd be staying the night, our driver had two options: one, take us to our hotel, or two, screw us over a little more. He opted for the latter. Instead of taking us to the hotel, the immigration guy decided to drop us off on the side of the road where a taxi was waiting. Now it is entirely possible that the fact that there was a taxi waiting exactly where our driver said he couldn't drive any further was a total coincidence. But I kind of doubt it. And either way, it's irrelevant. Murphy's Law works with both the conscious and unconcious, and the willing and unwilling participation of human subjects. Regardless, we ended up being told that we needed to get out of the immigration vehicle and into the taxi. Our initial driver assured us that the cabby was his buddy and that we could trust him to take us to our hotel. Not knowing how far that was (had we known we never would have accepted), feeling exhausted from the bus fiasco, and assuming we didn't really have any other options, we got in the cab. Murphy struck again.
We drove all of three blocks to our hotel, where the cab driver proceeded to charge us, what we later learned to be, roughly eight times the going rate. At this point we didn't really know we'd been taken advantage of and we didn't really care to look into it. We had finally arrived at our original destination and we still had time to make the canyon tour. Though it seemed like we had stumbled upon some good fortune, the truth is actually far less uplifting.
You see, as I mentioned before, the bad vibes that make Murphy's Law so trecherous pulsate from its core, which I am fairly certain lies somewhere within the heart of Nicaragua's capital, Managua. Somoto, where we were staying, is about as far north as you can get from Managua before crossing the border into Honduras. When we stepped out of that taxi, essentially we were stepping into the Murphy's "low tide". Thus explaining our spurious sensation of good luck.
This sensation was exacerbated when we finally reached the canyon. To be sure, we had a hell of a time. We lazily floated down the river, jumped off cliffs into the water, and enjoyed scenery that was absolutely surreal. But none of this contradicts the domineering presence of Murphy's Law in Nicaragua. Far from it. It has been proven time and again that Murphy's Law has an exceptionally difficult time operating below ground level, this is precisely the reason why were able to have an uniterrupted good time within the canyon walls. Prarie dogs have been aware of this fact for ages, hence their historic biological success and undeniably happy dispositions.
When we immerged from the canyon we were quickly reminded whose turf were trespassing on. Our canyon guide told us that if we walked up the dirt road that connected their little house to the main highway, we would surely find a bus back to our hotel in Somoto. After roughly twenty of walking down the shoulder-less highway and rubbing elbows with the semitrucks that were hurtling past us at mach four, we decided the guide might have been wrong. So we did what anyone in our position would do, we made a totally reckless bad decision.
As we ambled down the two lane expanse of pavement, contemplating how many hours it would take to hoof it back to town, we came across a group of Nicaraguan men hanging around a pair of trucks off to the side of the road. One of the vehicles appeared to be in disrepair, as half the guys had their heads under the hood. As our gringo/latina parade made its way past their group, one of the men asked us where we were headed. We told them Somoto, the gentlemen exchanged a few quick glances and offered us a ride in the back of the one working vehicle. I would be lying if I said I didn't initially think that accepting a ride in the back of a shady looking pickup truck, in the middle of nowhere Nicaragua was one of the worst propositions I ever heard. The thought definitely crossed my mind. In fact, it never left my mind. But somehow we ended up accepting the offer anyway, and eventually the thought was drowned out by the more prescient idea of what it was going to feel like after I was flung from the bed of the truck traveling seventy miles an hour through curving Nicaraguan mountain roads.
We somehow dodged the Murphy bullet on our ride home. The guy gouged us for the price a little, but considering the trajectory of the day, it could have been much worse. In fact, we managed to stay under Murphy's radar for almost the entire rest of the day. We ate the best Mexican food ever, we drank our fair share of Nicaraguan rum, and we explored the sleepy mountain town dressed as 1950's greasers (it made sense at the time). It wasn't until we returned to our hotel after a hearty helping of fun times that Murphy's Law decided to alter the course of our lives again.
Julian and I had only planned on spending one night in Somoto. We were going to take a southbound bus the next morning to the town of Esteli in order to be hippies and take pictures at some famous flower preserve thing (I really don't know what it was and we never got to see it). It was all part of larger plan to make it down to the very southern part of Nicaragua, and the touristy town of San Juan del Sur. We had heard nothing but crazy things about San Juan del Sur during Semana Santa. Essentially it was pitched as the wildest, most happening, most party friendly place to observe the holy week while in Nicaragua. Pious and curious as we are, Julian and I had set out to investigate these claims. We made reservations at fancy hotel in San Juan for the last night the blow-out religious kegger that is Semana Santa, and allowed our hopes to inflate like balloons.
There was only one thing wrong with our plan. We expected it to work. We failed to take into account the Murphy factor, which presented itself in all its hideous glory when we returned to the hotel after our night on the town in Somoto. Apparently, and this has yet to fully make sense to me, during the time of year when the demand for transportation is at its highest in Nicaragua (Semana Santa) it is quite normal for there to be at least a couple days where there are absolutely no busses running anywhere. One of the reasons we had been given as an explanation for this curious fact is that often the bus drivers are hungover from worshipping and don't feel like coming to work. I don't think this can account for all of the absentee busses but it seems believable to an extent. A more plausible explanation, however; Murphy's stupid ass law.
So there we were, stuck in sleepy little Somoto, needing to get from the top of the country to the bottom of the country in two days. Luckily, as I explained before, we were stationed in the outter regions the Murphy nebula, so our misfortune came in fairly managable and infrequent waves. As result, we ended up spending an extra day and a night in Somoto. We were able to do some relaxing, between bouts of desperately calling friends trying to find a way south so as to not miss out on the reservations that we had already paid for. We ate at the Mexican restaurant some more, in fact we ate there for every meal and became such regulars that they made us special goodbye meals on our last day. We fed some really cute monkeys that lived at our hotel, and we slept...a lot. All in all, it was actually pretty great. We almost forgot that Murphy's Law even existed...almost.
I managed to find a friend of a friend who was coincidently in the town just south of us, Esteli (the town Julian and I had previously planned on visiting). If we could get to her we could hitch a ride south to Managua, then catch a bus to Partyville. It meant we would have to pay a lot more than we anticipated, but it would work. What was more troublesome was the fact that our route would be returning us directly into the heart of darkness. It was time for Julian and I to decide, were we going to cower in the face of an immortal, Central American, good time wrecking, demon, creature-thing or were we gonna get our drink on? The answer should be clear...we made our way to Esteli.
Aside from briefly being convinced that our ride had forgotten about us, the trip from Somoto, to Esteli, to Managua went off without a hitch. We hoped against hope that Murphy had decided to take pity on us and spare our souls of his continued torment. We would not be so lucky. Murphy was lulling us into a false sense of security.
We spent one night in Managua to rest up for, what we anticipated to be, the wildest spring break experience of our young lives. Something akin to the kind of no holds barred fun times you see depicted in bad movies about college. We woke up early that Saturday morning with high hopes (and passports), and made our way once again to the bus station to catch a ride to San Juan del Sur.
Unlike our first bus trip of Semana Santa, the voyage down south was muy tranquilo. That is to say, we got to sit down the whole way, people could keep their farts to themselves, and I didn't see or hear of one drop of bodily fluid landing anywhere it wasn't welcome. It was so nice we were even able to sleep while the bus was moving! If we didn't think things were on the up and up before, by this point we were pretty much certain of it.
Oh the insidiousness of Murphy. Curses!
Our bus took us to the small town of Rivas, from there we were supposed to catch a taxi the rest of the way to San Juan del Sur. We had been warned by a Peace Corps worker that the taxistas in Rivas were notorious for ripping off gringos, particularly during Semana Santa. She told us to expect to be offered a taxi to San Juan for $10 each, which was a ridiculous price given that the ride is normally thirty five cordobas (a little over $1.50). Sure enough, we step off the bus and we're immediately approached by a cab driver. We ask him how much to San Juan del Sur, he pretends to give it some earnest thought then responds, ¨Diez dollares, cada uno.¨ Ten bucks each. We immediately refuse and tell him we will pay him seventy cordobas. The taxista pleads with us that it is a very long trip (which was not true), thus he had to gouge us with nearly six times the going rate. In a display a pure selflessness he offers us the discounted price of $8 each. We politely decline and turn our backs in search of a more realistic cabby. Sensing that his profits were walking away, the cabby calls out to Julian and I offering to go down to 80 cords for the two of us; only ten cords more than what we knew to be the normal fare. We happily accepted.
And the misfortune continued.
We had a moment during our ride to San Juan del Sur that was, in all seriousness, profoundly tragic. We hadn't been in the cab for more than ten minutes when the steady stream of southbound traffic that filled the sketchy two lane highway came to a complete standstill. Cars had pulled out of their single file formation so as to see what the hold up was, people were making their way up and down the side of the road on foot. Our driver put the cab into park and stepped out to see if he could figure out what was going on. I followed suit. When we got back in the car he told Julian and I that there had been an accident, we weren't suprised. That much we could have guessed. What was suprising was when he told us that sixteen people were dead and that a pickup truck and a bus had collided.
As it turned out, there were actually twelve people who died that morning. The truck they were in was carrying thirteen. As I understand it, all but the driver were riding in the bed and all but the driver perished. They were all young. An overloaded bus in front of their vehicle attempted to pass a car, decided against it, and tried to move back into the lane it was previously occupying. Unfortunately, the pickup truck full of youngsters had taken its place. Unable to see the truck, the back of the bus collided with the front of the pickup, sending it and all of its occupants careening off to the side of the road. The story was all over the news for two weeks following Semana Santa. We passed the scene of the accident moments after the bodies had been cleared away. It was a sobering reminder of just how dangerous traveling in Nicaragua can be. Not because this sort of accident couldn't happen anywhere in the United States at any time, it could, but because there is laxity in the enforcement of driving regulations and an acceptance of risky driving customs that inherently invites the possibility of terrible situations.
We pulled into San Juan del Sur shaken by the accident but not yet deterred from attempting to have a great experience. The town looked to be, more or less, what we expected. All kinds of people walking around in bathing suits, a huge beach butting up against open air restaurants, and what appeared to be a general openness to fun times. We were anxious to hop out of the cab and get on our way. Julian and I each pulled out our fourty cords and presented them to the taxista. He looked at strangely and shook his head. He then proceeded to tell us that he had agreed to eighty for each us, not eighty total. We were taken aback but I can't say I was shocked. At this point my Murphy's Law theory was really beginning to take shape and the cabby's behavior seemed completely consistent with my hypothesis of systematic crapiness.
I think Julian was ready to fight the guy and in all honesty, he probably could have kept us from losing our money. We definitely did not agree to the rate he was trying to get out of us. But I was over it. I just wanted to be out of the cab and on to new and hopefully better things. I paid Murphy's minion the extra few dollars and we made our way to our hotel.
The hotel was nice, maybe not nice enough to justify the price we had to pay for it, but it was on the beach so we were not about to complain. The only problem was that we had arrived in San Juan about four hours before we could actually check-in. This meant we had to kill a substantial amount of time walking around an area notorious for robbery while carrying all of our possesions, including our cameras. Needless to say, I was not exactly excited about the idea. At this point I was completely convinced of the realness of Murphy's Law and I felt like walking around with bags and camera gear was roughly the equivalent of doing a rain dance for misfortune.
Luckily and shockingly enough we made it through the first part of the day without any major problems. The hotel even let us put some of our things behind the counter while we went out exploring. Once we were able to check-in we quickly dropped off all of our stuff, changed into our swimming suits, and headed for the ocean.
The beach at San Juan Del Sur was something else. Picture hundreds of people at varying levels of intoxicated rolling around in, throwing, and generally enjoying the hell outta mud. Honestly, it was like the Pacific Ocean could not hold a candle, in terms of appeal, to the alluring mixture of dirt and water. I couldn't quite figure it out. It was sort of like Woodstock, minus the bands, the acid, and the hippies but with an extra helping of mud frollick. The beach wasn't exactly clean either. In fact, it was more like the opposite of that. None the less, people seemed to be having fun and Julian and I were ready to partake.
We made our way down the coast to the most isolated spot we could find. There we encountered a little kid, probably about seven or so years old, with a boogey board (I think that's what it's called). We decided to take off our sandals, and Julian his shirt, and go make friends with the little guy. To our luck, the kid was more than happy to hang out and let us try out his board a few times. The waves were coming in pretty huge and the fun factor was through the roof. We should have taken this as a sign that Murphy was at work.
In the fifteen to twenty minutes that Julian and I spent riding waves, Murphy had dispatched one of his servants to abscond with our belongings. I had told Julian it was going to happen. I was certain that if we left anything unattended on the beach, for any amount of time, we would surely never see it again. Julian, with his heart of solid gold, doubted my pessimism. I decided to follow his lead. I wanted to be proven wrong. Alas, it was not to be. Murphy had swallowed us whole and we were now plumetting through his digestive system, stomach acid burning our skin, our destination all too clear.
In other words, somebody stole our sandals.
Maybe under normal circumstances this wouldn't seem like that big of a deal. But after the shit storm that had rained on our heads for the last few days, this affront was simply too much to bear. I was convinced dear, sweet Julian was going to eviscerate the first Nicaraguan he saw in Birkenstocks. Fortunately for them, we never our sandals again. Unfortunately for Julian, he was now without any footwear. This meant he had to walk on the burning hot sand and asphalt of San Juan del Sur until we could find a shop with flip flops big enough and cheap enough to fit his needs. We eventually found ourselves some very stylish ying-yang patterned sandals for the cool price of 10 bucks. A little steep I know, but fashion doesn't come cheap.
Having realized there was no escaping Murphy's unrelenting brutality, but too proud to admit our defeat, Julian and I decided we would give it our all to make the last night of San Juan del Sur something to remember, and it worked. Sorta.
We returned to our fortress of solitude and changed into our evening attire. A little voice in my head was telling me that maybe, just maybe, all the crap that we had put up with in the preceeding days had occured so that we could fully appreciate the amazing night that was about to unfold. Then a louder voice in my head said,"No. This is probably gonna to suck too."
Julian and I stepped back onto the streets of San Juan del Sur like slaves of the Roman Empire making their entrance onto the Colosuem floor; forced to do battle with hulking, unstoppable gladiators, bodies wrecked from prior clashes, dreading the assault that was sure to commence at any moment, and utterly unable to escape.
We did what we had to do. We looked for seafood. And we found it. And it was pretty good.
As we finished our meal in an open air restaurant overlooking the Pacific, the sun was just beginning to set and it looked like we had somehow managed to step into a screensaver. Julian and I decided it was absolutely necessary to document the moment, so we headed back to the hotel for our cameras. At this point it should have been blatantly obvious that anything this enticing, this alluring, this great, had to be the work of Murphy's Law.
Apparently we're dense.
At first glance everything on the beach seemed kosher. We were taking pictures of the sunset. There seemed to be enough people around that one could feel relatively secure. It wasn't quite dark yet. Then it happened. We made a "friend". A young man approached me and started asking me about my tattoos. This is not uncommon by any means, whenever I wear a tank top down here I expect to be stared at and questioned non-stop. He asked me how long it took, how much it cost, all the normal stuff. I tried to be as friendly as could while continuing to take pictures of the rapidly disappearing sun.
Then the dude started talking about drugs. Particularly what drugs he had access to and how cheaply we could acquire them from him. We repeatedly told him in as many ways as possible that it wasn't gonna happen, but he just kept insisting on how great of bargain we would be passing up. He was tenacious. When it became clear that he wasn't going to get any money out of us his demenor made a hundred and eighty degree turn.
He strated cursing at us, telling us that we had been wasting his precious time and that we would need to go talk to his brother now, who was apparently sitting nearby observing the situation. The dealer then appeared to start signaling somebody a short distance away from us. The last thing I wanted to do was have a "talk" with this guy's brother, especially while Julian and I had our cameras on us. I had a feeling I probably wouldn't like what he had to say. I did my best to calm the dealer fella down. I told him it was no problem and I asked him how much his oh-so-precious time was worth. He told us seventy cords, roughly $3.50. I figured it was worth it to pay him then and there. Sure he was straight up robbing us without proving that we were in any immediate danger. Essentially we were just giving money to a guy that was yelling at us. But I really didn't want him to have to prove anything to us. I didn't want us lose our cameras and I didn't want us to get hurt. There was something in his eyes that made me feel like he wasn't messing around. He could've just been a great actor but I wasn't too eager to find out. I figured three and half bucks would be worth it to make him go away.
Once he got the money his mood turned back to "normal" and he told us that everything was "tranquilo" and went on his way. Julian and I made a beeline for the hotel. I had an upset feeling in my stomach. I was angry at myself for letting the situation escalate. I was angry at Nicaraguans for treating me like a walking dollar sign. I was just plain angry. I had next to no interest in keeping up the fight for a fun Semana Santa.
After a much needed dose of Adam Sandler's underrated gem, The Longest Yard, and a much needed schwill of Nicaraguan rum, I let go of the anger. There was nothing I could do. It wasn't the entire country's fault that a few people took advantge of us for a few bucks. There was nothing they could do, after all, they were locked in Murphy's deathgrip too. We decided it was only right to see what else Murphy's Law had in store for us. If anything, just for curiousity's sake. Therefore, fully expecting a disagreeable experience, we made one last venture into Murphy's world.
For the duration of Semana Santa the streets of San Juan del Sur had been lined with makeshift nightclubs, literally bussed in from the capital. It was a sight to see. We made our way to the most highly recommended of these facilities. Against our better judgment, we paid the last of our money for "VIP" passes. The hope was that with these passes we'd find a way to dance with at least a few of the countless beautiful girls that were in the area. In reality, the only real difference I noticed between the VIP passes and regular admission was the fact that we didn't have to stand in sand. They were absolutely no help with the ladies. In fact, I don't think there was anything that could have helped us in that department save four gallons of hair gel, a wardrobe suited for a Chadalicious frat party (circa 1996), and aura of machismo so apparent that it actually stings the eyes. No matter what we did, whether we politely asked or whether we shimmied our way into their vacinity, the ladies weren't picking up what we were putting down. I can't really blame them either. They say confidence is a key ingredient in attraction and at this point my confidence had been so thoroughly beaten with the Murphy bat that it was but a shadow of its former self.
We returned to our hotel once and for all. Murphy had won the day (or rather the week).
The morning came with bright light and slight feeling of being let down. But we did not sulk back to Managua. We did not cower like dogs with our tails between our legs in the presence of the unstoppable destructive power that is Murphy's Law. No. Like sailors of old whose wooden ships could not hope to hope to survive the gale force winds of a hurricane, we faced our fate with dignity. We set out for relaxation, we found it in the little mountain getaway of Somoto. We wanted adventure, we found it in every other moment of Semana Santa. And though we went down, we went down fighting. More importantly, we had a lot of fun along the way. So more or less, we were successful in the face of law that says that everything that can go wrong will go wrong. Maybe that's what were supposed to be learning down here, that in the vast majority of the world, people can't just plan like we can in the United States. You have to be ready to take whatever Murphy throws at you and not just survive it, not just endure it, but embrace it and learn how to be happy in the midst of it.
Either that or don't talk to strangers.
