Costa Rica is something I have been anticipating for a few years now. Unfortunately, I really don’t know that much about it. I’ve wanted to come here for years after hearing a wonderful girl describe being out on the ocean on a surfboard at sunset and sunrise and not being sure which was which. I’ve heard descriptions of a fantastic hostel on the coast painted all in murals and hammocks and filled with greatness. I had forgotten the name, but I got online and looked it up. Rockin J’s in Puerto Viejo. First though, I need to stop over in the capital. The ride has some great scenery.
The border crossing is pretty boring. We do need three dollars and they can’t break a $20, so the guy in the seat in front of me takes a break from his gameboy to loan me three bucks. I got change from the worlds slowest bank while everyone else stood out in the heat. I did get a Nicaragua stamp on the way out, which makes me happy, but the line that we need to stand in to get let into Costa Rica is wrapping around the building. It’s about 90 degrees out and there is little shade to be had. The bus driver comes back to tell us something in Spanish. If I hear him right, we need to leave all our bags on the bus and in order to gain entrance to Costa Rica we need to have a ticket showing our trip out of Costa Rica at a later date. This could be a problem. I have no tickets after San Jose.
I didn’t hear him right. We are supposed to take our bags with us.
I know this is my responsibility; to check these sort of things before I try to go to another country, but I’ve gotten lazy. The last 4 countries have all been a part of the CA-4 alliance, much to the chagrin of my passport stamp hunting, and I haven’t needed to do much more than show up and walk through. I could waste time and energy getting mad at the ticket sales people again for leaving this part out, but I’m over that.
On the way out of the bus, the hombre in front of me reveals that he speaks English. His English is about on par with my Spanish, which makes us a pretty good conversational pair. He confirms that you do need some form of return ticket. There is a Tica Bus ticket window near the front of the building, so I figure I can pick one up on my way into the building. No sweat.
An hour and a half later, when we finally get around that corner of the building, the Tica Bus stall has closed for the day. Oops. I read in my handbook that this rule is not always enforced. Yes, this is the same book that has been oh-so-accurate about everything else. Crossing my fingers can’t hurt at this point. We’ve been standing in the sun for about 2 hours by the time we roll in. If I start sweating, I’m sure they won‘t think anything of it.
A couple of tips for the Nicaragua to Costa Rica border crossing. You can cut to the front of the line. Locals seem to have a better time of it, but if you can speak to the security guard quietly in Spanish, you may be able to pay him to let you slide to the front of the line. I just watched two guys on awesome Suzuki Boulevards do it. Also, watch out for old ladies. They will just walk up to the front of the line and put their bag down in front of you as if they owned the place. I haven’t really found an effective way to deal with this, since most of the old ladies in this area have lived through a few civil wars and probably aren’t the least bit intimidated by some cracker from the U.S.
Next, while it may be good to get your ongoing ticket before entering the country, you can get it at the border before 5:30 p.m. Also, my little lady never asked for anything. She didn’t even say hi. She took my passport and paper. Stamped me and sent me on my way. You must submit ALL your bags to be checked by the border patrol. If you are a cracker from the U.S. this means they look at you and say, ok take your bags and go. If you look like a local or a strung out monkey, they will search your bags.
Roger is the guys name in front of me in line. Roger is from Honduras. Roger buys me a soda. We spend plenty of time talking and turns out his stepdad is from Alabama and has had 4 strokes. He is studying in Costa Rica and doesn’t take futbol as seriously as some of his fellow Hondurans. Once, just for wearing the wrong jersey he was attacked. The attacker tried to strangle Roger with his own shirt. In Roger’s memory he has seen a boy shot at a game because he was a rival fan of an aggressor with a gun. All that aside, he does enjoy the sport and even gives me a handmade bracelet for the Honduran National team.
Roger is familiar with San Pedro Sula and since it is a place close to my heart for housing my friend Arai, we get to chatting. He starts telling me about the three rival gangs that populate the place. MS-13, Dies y ocho, and one other I forgot. We are talking about all the wild things that go down there when another lady in front of us turns around and starts reading Roger the riot act. She is angry at him for making it out to be so dangerous and keeps professing her love for Honduras. I wonder if she would have the same reaction in she met Arai and heard her personal stories.
Ah well, back on the bus for another 5 hours. I’ll be rolling in to San Jose sometime after midnight if we make good time.
It’s a full moon tonight and the Costa Rican moon looks as beautiful as any moon I have ever seen. No clouds and no surrounding city lights to interfere with her majesty. I tried to take a couple pictures but as it turns out a moving bus isn’t the best set up for a picture of the moon.
Despite the heat and 3 restless kids running around the rear section of the bus, I fall asleep; fast asleep despite the heat. Each time the bus stops to let people off, I wake up bathed in sweat. Roger gets off the bus at some point, and I know I have another two hours until I can exit as well. Somewhere between the naps I watch a movie called Pandorum on my iPod and it’s actually better than I thought it would be. One of the kids is actually wearing a leash.
11:30. San Jose. Chilling out waiting for my bag to come off the bus, I note that Tica has it’s own Hotel attached. It is swank looking enough and charges a staggering $28 a night. This probably includes hot water and a private bathroom, but it’s a bit rich for my taste.
It’s a wonder that everyone in this part of the world isn’t constantly hoarse from all the yelling they do all day. I can’t believe there are this many taxis awake in the city. Then again, it is the capital and it is Saturday night. I pick out a cabbie at random and start to walk to his car with him. He quotes me a rate and I know I am getting screwed, but it is too late for me to care.
When I see his car, I stop dead. There isn’t a single identifying mark on the whole thing. Just a plain ugly white compact with some rust and scratch marks. I ask why it doesn’t say taxi anywhere on his car and he tries to tell me it is because he is a special private transportation service. Yeah, the guy looks like he hasn’t shaved in weeks and his laundry is well over do for a wash. Actually, when I say it like that, he sounds a lot like me. Despite our similarity in appearance, I turn around and walk right back to the cabbies and ask for one who actually drives a taxi. Some one volunteers and the unshaven unmarked cab guy yells to the other cabbie the price I agreed to. Now I am absolutely certain that I am getting raped on the price, but I still don’t care. It’s still around 10% of what I paid for a cab ride in Raleigh once… and that cabbie was a friend of mine.
Maybe I was being overly cautious. Maybe it is fine to get in unmarked cars that profess to be taxis in Central America. But with the amount of cautionary tales I am racking up, I thought it best to err on the side of caution. My new cabbie is cool and quiet. He asks a couple standard questions and drives less dangerously than most. At one point we drive by three separate girls that all look like they are going clubbing, but I see no clsub. I think to myself that all those women look like dudes in the face, despite dressing to the hilt. Asking my cabbie if they are prostitutes, as that is not uncommon for this city, he replies with a word I don’t recognize. I ask again. He says, “gay.” Travesti. Travesty. Apparently, my hotel is in ‘that’ district.
Cabbie waits for me while I go into Tranquilo to ask if they have room for one more. They are full up but direct me to Kabata across the street. Kabata is cool. They include breakfast and internet (slow!) for the low low price of $25 a night. That is the most I have paid for a hotel in about a month, by a very large margin. At this point, I would have been better off to just stay at the Tica hotel. Something to remember.
The owners speak French, Spanish, and English so far as I can tell, by may speak more languages. They are always ready to assist, and keep the door locked at all hours day and night, so you need to roust them to get in or out. This is not as big a hassles as it sounds. Once I did have to just walk into the underground parking and come into the building from building from below since no one was answering. I got lucky and a car was leaving. Someone even drove into the garage door once while I stood and watched. It was pretty classic.
Sleep comes slowly tonight after the napping on the bus. S’okay. Gives me a little bit to consider a few things. I’m moving too fast these days. I barely saw Nicaragua; somewhere I was interested in. I will barely spend time in Costa Rica, which is fine cuz it’s a bit expensive for my taste, but I’m not sure I have time left to do Colombia, Peru, Chile, Argentina, and Brazil. What with the recent earthquake, I may have to give Chile a berth, since I don’t really know anything about what is really going on on the ground… then again, maybe this is the perfect time to go there. Chaos is often to my liking. I want to slow down. I want to take another couple of months for the continent. That’s going to be hard to do and keep a hold of my girl back home though. Ah, well. Thinking out loud.
The “breakfast” offered by the hostel consists of coffee and a choice of cold cereal or toast. Still, it’s enough to get me going. I have laundry to do and a shopping list of things I would like to accomplish.
Fast forward. After having walked nearly the length and breadth of the map of San Jose the hostel have me, I can tell you that it looks and feels like most large North American cities like this. There are a few more Latin Americans that Los Angeles, but not much. This is also the first time in C.A. that I have actually seen marginally attractive girls just out walking around. No, I am not including the transvestites.
Over the course of the day, I smelled vomit and urine in considerably less quantities than in some other cities I have seen down here and met a higher concentration of English speakers across the city in a variety of different roles. Basically, if you are looking to get out of the U.S. you could make it in San Jose with little to no help. But it doesn’t really feel like you are OUT of the U.S.
The city has a lot going for it. Good public transit, artist support, you can walk everywhere, decent food, affordable food, though they are not always in the same place. The “sodas,” little restaraunts, are the cheapest place to get good local food. Quite nice really. The city does have a few drawbacks; petty crime, it’s expensive compared to other places in C.A. They have some truly motivated Fire and Brimstone preachers in the square outside the elegant main post office.
There is an awesome looking place for sale up the street! I want it.
I went to the mall to get a mini tripod for the camera and it was EXACTLY like any mall in the U.S. Only difference was that no one spoke English there. Many people were very helpful, and I bought 2 wild t-shirts for mega cheap at a Pakistani store since I am always running out of shirts before shorts. I think the Adidas running shirts were ill-advised. The T-shirt I brought gives me much more mileage. I may have said that before.
There are two French girls staying at the hostel mixed in with myself and the other vagrants. Sonia has hair like angels in coitus. It’s fantastic. They are a talkative sort and generally likeable. As disagreeable a person as I believe myself to be, I find I quite often like people just for saying hi to me or smiling. Simple things.
I’m still picking bits of volcano out of my knuckles.
Much of downtown is closed on Sunday, but I still manage to snap a few choice pictures. I gave the caballero all the coin I had in my pocket. He was simply too good to be true. I challenge any of you to come across a masterpiece like this and NOT give him money.
Again. I cannot repeat this strongly enough. ALWAYS check your receipt and your ticket before you walk away from the ticket counter. When paying for my ride to Puerto Viejo, I was sold the 6 a.m. ticket. Not the 12 noon ticket that I needed. I noticed this about 10 minutes to 5 p.m. I wonder how often the bums and strippers I bolted past see a crazy foreigner do the 4 minute mile through the ghetto? Probably more often than they should.
I arrived at the ticket counter at 3 minutes to 5 p.m. There was a gentleman in front of me talking to the ticket guy, so I figured I was cool. After a few minutes I figured out there were coworkers and were just gossiping instead of doing anything of importance. So I explained very nicely to the ticket counter guy that I had the incorrect ticket and I needed to exchange it. He told me it was after 5 and he wouldn’t help me anymore as they were closed. For about the next 5 minutes I tried to explain to him that I had to change it today because I needed to pick up a package from FedEx in the morning at 8:30 and would not be on the 6 a.m. bus. As you can suppose, my woes and his inadequacy did not a wonderful match make.
I slept terribly. I was waking up all night in a panic that I had overslept. I was dreaming wild orgy dreams and completely disoriented when I awoke.
4:59: Staring at my blackberry. I turn off the alarm and get up, get dressed in the same clothes as yesterday and wake the guy at the front counter to let me out. I tell him I’ll be back in a half hour and walk away. The morning is brisk and beautiful. There are bare hints of color all throughout the sky and a breeze is keeping the morning fresh long before the cars, buses, taxis, and urinating winos begin assaulting the air. It is one of the finer walks I have enjoyed.
Never be late for anything while traveling. Simply never do it. Be on time or be early. That being said, Never expect anyone else to be on time. It will not happen. Embrace this truth and prepare. You will be aggravated, but that will not change that the ONLY instance when things will run on time is the day that you are 5 minutes late. The ticket counter gentleman is about 15 minutes late to work. I am certain however, that the bus will leave on time. Despite the previous evenings exchange between the obese ticket vendor and myself, the exchange goes smooth as glass and I am off to go enjoy a shower.
More coffee and bread for breakfast with the French girls; they are delightful and leaving today for some place I have never heard of. We exchange email addresses and bid each other adieu. Now I am off on my grand adventure to find the Statue of Leon Cortes. Why, you may ask? Because that is the address of the FedEx office. No joke. I need to ask a cabbie to drive to 100 meters east of the statue of Leon Cortes. It is amazing to me that things work as well as they do here. The taxi quotes me 2200 and charges me 3500 when we arrive. Yuck.
8:30 the FedEx website tells me it opens. 9:00 the FedEx door says. Guess which one wins? To kill 30 minutes I walk over to the statue to see what is so cool about the guy. No placard, so I walk on. A Swedish girl and I walk around a bit talking and hang out in an internet café that is apparently closed, though the door is open to kill some time before I have to go get my card.
The FedEx guy is cool; the kind of cool that makes you want to ask a guy for his number just so you can go hang out. I never got his name, but he was a blast. I forgot the tracking number, but he looks it up with my passport and has it out in no time. It was opened by customs, but the card is there so I am golden.
The return taxi is somewhat less of an extortionist quoting 1500 and asking 1920 on arrival. San Jose taxis are something of a different sort. They are all red with a triangular yellow sign on the side. There are some that simply quote you a price, and some that use meters. Watch out for the taxis that use meters. Some of them are impossible to read or are broken and the taxi driver will claim he can read it. The meter runs based on time rather than mileage, so if you catch one during rush hour, you will be paying substantial fees. Just a word to the wise; the walk is usually nice, so go for it if it is within reason.
I managed to get some post cards in the mail, so keep your eyes out. Now that I have my new ATM card, it appears that someone has been using a credit card of mine in Chicago, IL. I have been the victim of some identity theft, so I cut up the other card and made sure my bank is taking care of it on their end. My towel still isn’t dry, so it looks like I’ll be using the autobus dryer on my way to Puerto Viejo.
In many ways San Jose is the same as any other city in C.A. Noone knows where anything is; people at work don’t even know what street is outside their office. You must harass the bus drivers to tell you where your stop is or they will simply drive past it and laugh at you when you ask them about your stop later. Bums sleep in the street, and it is entirely socially acceptable to urinate in public. I like it.
Returning to the bus station, I learn that there has been a road closure and the bus will take an alternate route which will add an hour to the trip. This means I have to walk back inside and exchange my ticket again. Getting on the bus, my headphones start malfunctioning. I expected this, I had to superglue the base of the cord together last week. By the time the bus leaves, the tape patch job I put on them has caused them to cease altogether. Wow. 5.5 hours of no headphones is ok if you have someone to talk to. Unfortunately, no one nearby seems to have anything worth talking about.
I planned for this sort of thing. I have the tools necessary to splice in a new headphone jack, but I need the jack, promptly supplied by the first gas station we stop at, but I need to get the tools out of my big bag. I can do it once we get to Puerto Viejo. Until then, to drown out the sorority chatter of the dozen or so overweight American girls surrounding me, I’ll listen to the sony headphones I just bought though they are quite painful. My Etymotic ER-6i headphones were expensive, but they have been worth every penny over the year or so that I have had them. Well worth repairing.
At the second stop off, there is a fantastic graveyard. People are buried in something of a filing cabinet with names and coffins drawn on the side. While I am taking the pictures a man in a generic New York jersey walks up to me and offers to sell me “gwanja.” Politely, I decline.
Once we get back on the bus, I grab a new seat and strike up a conversation with a Swiss guy named Simon. Next stop, Rockin J’s.
p.s. found a little piece of home today.
