I’m currently on a bus heading from La Fortuna, Costa Rica to San Juan del Sur, Nicaragua. So as to stave the tedium of the six hour ride, I thought it opportune to write a bit to chronicle musings of my experience, if only partially. It’s Friday again, and perhaps it’s more apt than aught that I try to record my thoughts with some simple words. To indulge my whimsical side, I shall essay to ramble a bit to ignite the imagination.
Toady, the skies loom gray over the lush canopies as the bus meanders through the hilly terrain. The daily business of living unfurls here as with everywhere on earth — after all, we’re not so much different. Perhaps only as an outsider observing can one find salient charm in the mundane life here; withal, the ordinary and the extraordinary are merely matters of perspective. Just now we drove pass some farm land (which, no doubt, was only recently thick forest) where a young boy was leading a calf to pasture; what to me is a scene brimming with idyllic charm must, to that boy, weigh with much ennui. Still, to us both alike, it’s reality. Yet, to me is all the difference in the world being afforded the small luxury to partake, even passively, in such rural escape — no place to be, no appointments to keep. In some sense, I fain say that the birds that sing here, sing for me.
The road moves under me, and the scenes of this vast countryside recess into the distance: now a guava tree, a hibiscus hedge, a trickling brook, the myriad flowers and bloom, natives striding along the dusty road well-worn, horses grazing in delight, a lone shack long abandoned, the wind that beteems the grasses; all happens, perhaps, as they should. Who knows for whom the rains fall and the flowers bloom. Such as now, I’m merely a passenger along for the ride, all too willing to partake in this drama.
I marvel at the locals sharing the bus with me as they prate along in lively conversation. In some sense, I am the silent intruder trespassing their world. Despite the language barriers, we all follow human protocol enough to grant each other a friendly smiles. Imagine the possibilities if we could share in easy conversation — what stories would they tell? and what questions would they ask? I’m inclined to know the story of the elder gentlemen seated a few seats down, worn with weathered complexion and tired look; what fascinations of joy, heartache, and travails those wrinkles must hide? and were life only to pause long enough to beggar me his tales of triumph and woe. Or the restless school boy in full attire looking every bit the part of a fresh soul braving the world, kicking the stones as he traipses down the dusty road. Does he even know the wonders that lay ahead?