Panama City

I think Panama City must have been built on a swamp. The heat was oppressive. I wandered around Miguel’s apartment shirtless and slick with sweat. Getting up from the couch, I felt bad for leaving a puddle of sweat behind me.

If you ever want to open up a hostel, do it in Panama City. The city holds you captive. Not in the magical sense either. It’s physical captivation. The road ends here, and the only way across is to get a boat or fly. The time travelers have to waste in arranging this, especially the boat option, will make a hostel owner rich.

Lucky for me, I had a CouchSurfing host. Unlucky for me, he was hosting an English guy.

Front-Seat Battles

His name was Ross. Although I’ve disliked most of the English travelers I’ve met, I started fresh with him – open-minded and friendly.

On our first outing together in Miguel’s truck, I conceded the front seat to Ross. I wanted to establish a sharing spirit among us, and show Ross I had no sense of ownership on the front seat. Unfortunately, he was English.

I let Ross take the front seat a few more times, especially when stopping at the passenger-seat door would have impeded the flow. But then it happened. Ross stopped short at the passenger-seat door, blocking me, and making me step around him to get to the back seat. At this point it was obvious he didn’t want to give up rights to the passenger seat. It was important to him to get that artificial sense of higher value. And it was important to me to foil his ass.

So in our next face-off, although I feigned a comfortable, lazy gait, I moved to the truck with purpose as I monitored Ross’ movements. I made a casual arrival at the passenger-seat door, this time blocking Ross, who was behind me. Ross lingered behind me a few moments too long. Although I didn’t turn around to look at him because I didn’t want to draw attention to my feat, he must have felt stumped. I think he thought lining up behind me was going to indicate to me that I was in the wrong place. I got in and sat in my throne. He descended silently to the back seat.

It was war. An unspoken battle for the front seat each time we strode through the parking lot. I let him win shotgun a lot of times; I just wanted it to be equitable. But stupid English bastard never conceded it to me. He never willingly moved to the back seat; I had to take it from him.

Clown Fetish

Miguel, an internet fiend, was all over my facebook, and asked me about the photos from the John Mark clown video I had made. I explained that I was acting as a character who had a fetish for clowns. But he and Ross didn’t get it, although they enjoyed their own stupid comments and questions. This became a big interest for them. Miguel wanted to see the video and asked me where he could find it. I stalled on it because I didn’t want to expose it to them. But that didn’t stop Miguel. He hunkered down in his internet power search mode and creeped through everything he could find that was linked with me.

And eventually he found it. But, it had been taken down for copyright infringement. So they stayed up late watching almost every other video in our extensive catalog. The next few days were peppered with annoying comments.

“So if we go to the circus, and you see a clown, will you get really excited? Would we have to hold you back?”

I laughed along, although it was a struggle. These guys didn’t get it. I was especially irritated by the plain, English, boring guy. You’re too boring to understand this dude.

Then, as we were driving around, we passed a guy doing some Zen kind of Chi power-stance. From the back seat, Ross quips, “It’s like a scene out of your wanking video,” and then busts out laughing. I was pissed. I turned around and coldly asked, “How?” How, dude?! It’s frustrating when you’re getting cut down with material that’s not even good. How do you defend against it? It’s like trying to make fun of children who have an undeveloped sense of humor. Even if you get them good, they won’t get it, and then they’ll “zing” you with something that doesn’t even make sense.

Crossing the Darien Gap

The Darien Gap makes you appreciate roads.

The Gap is the infamous area between Panama and Colombia that’s impassable, unless you’re hardy enough to hike through dense jungle over mountains and through rivers. There are no trails. I’ve heard about people doing this, but some have gotten kidnapped or held at gunpoint. Apparently it’s a hot spot for drug trafficking.

Having had a hard time traveling with my bicycle on a dirt and rock road for a few miles, I held no illusions about overland travel through the Gap. But as I was considering all the other options, I yelled out in frustration a few times, “I wish there was a damn road.”

1. Sailboat:
There are boats that cart backpackers between Panama City and Cartagena, but they’re expensive. It’s a 5 or 6 day trip with a stop in the beautiful San Blas islands. $375. I considered this option because it would mean I wouldn’t have to break down my bike for boxing, but what got me was when I heard they’d charge me $50 more for bringing my bike on-board.
Here’s a list of the sailboats on one of the primary hostel sites in Panama City. I’ve read many good reviews about the “Stahlratte” boat from my extensive research.

2. Airplane:

This is the option I took. Aires Airlines is the way to go. It’s a deep-bargain Colombian airline that flies from Panama City to Cartagena, and many other places. I got my flight for $127 (after taxes), but then I had to pay $84 more for my bike ($4 per kg) and a $10 tourist entrance fee into Colombia.

So I saved a lot of time and about $200 by flying instead of taking a boat, although I missed the sailing experience and the stop in San Blas. Oh well, I was really more interested in getting to Colombia quickly.

3. Combination:
You can get creative and do as the locals do by traveling along the coast in lanchas, which are small, short-distance, motor boats.  The only problem is that you have to get a flight out to Panama’s Caribbean coast close to Colombia.

Flight: Panama City – Tubal (Panama): $65: TACA flight leaves from Albrook (Regional) airport Monday, Wednesday, Friday, and Sunday at 10:00 AM. and arrives at 11:00 AM to Tubal.
Boat: Tubal – Obaldia: $25: 1 hour
Boat: Obaldia – Capurgana (Colombia): $12: 1.5 hours
Boat: Capurgana – Turbo: $24: 2 hours

Total Cost: $126

My Colombian cyclist friend, Alex, crossed the Gap this way, and that’s how I got the information.  He told me that after he got off the plane at 11:00 AM, he immediately got on a boat to Obaldia.  Then, there was a boat leaving Obaldia at 12:30 PM.  Alex stayed the night in Capurgana.  I’ve heard from many people that Capurgana has nice beaches and is a good place to stay.

Panama Canal

While I was in Panama City, I was able to visit the Panama Canal.  It was a lot different from what I had expected.  I was under the impression that the canal was just a simple cut through the land, but in fact, it’s complicated and a major feat in engineering.

The French were the first to try to create a canal through Panama, and they had my idea — to just keep digging until water could flow freely from the Atlantic to the Pacific.  But they failed.  So, the US took over, and the chief engineer realized they needed a system that would take into account all the mountains in the interior of the country.  There were also complications with differences between the Atlantic and the Pacific, like tides and stuff.  So they built locks.  Here’s the description from wikipedia.

A lock is a device for raising and lowering boats between stretches of water of different levels on river and canal waterways. The distinguishing feature of a lock is a fixed chamber whose water level can be varied.

Locks are used to make a river more easily navigable, or to allow a canal to take a reasonably direct line across country that is not level.

It was interesting seeing these locks in action.  One chamber of water would drain, and another would fill, so that these huge cargo ships could be raised up to be transported through Panama’s interior, and then lowered back to sea level.

Old Grandad Whiskey, Abuelo Rum

When I was staying at Miguel’s place in Panama City, I noticed a bottle of rum on the table.  I wasn’t interested for the alcohol, but for the old man on the front of the label.  “Abuelo” means grandfather.

This Panamanian rum reminded me of my favorite bottom-of-the-shelf bourbon whiskey, Old Grandad.  It was a big hit with my roommates, Jeremy and Simon, at my old place in Atlanta, 1250.  Abuelo got me reminiscing.

Drive to Panama City

About two months before I got to Panama, Miguel contacted me on CouchSurfing. He lives in Panama City and was wondering if I would be cycling down that far. It was great to establish a friend and accommodation in Panama City, long before I got there.

Then when I was staying at Rancho de Caldera, near Boquete, Panama, Miguel contacted me on Facebook, asking where I was. As it turned out, his family is from Boquete, and he was visiting that weekend. He told me he’d be returning in his truck in a couple of days, and that I’d be welcome to ride with him.

Before jumping all over that opportunity, I considered what I’d be missing. Nothing. It would be four or five days of the Panamerican with only a few towns along the way. It seemed like it would be boring, and then when I asked around, it was confirmed – it was boring.

Since my friend, Jessica, had bought a flight to Bogota, time was no longer open-ended, and I still had to figure out a way to get me and my bike across the Darien Gap to Colombia.

With all these considerations, it was easy to accept Miguel’s invitation to ride with him to Panama City.

Rancho de Caldera

When Ryan and I stayed in Austin, TX with Nick and Laura, my goal destination changed.

After mentioning that Panama was my goal, Laura told me that her mom, Gina, lived there and had just finished building a resort. She showed me the website for Rancho de Caldera. It was unreal. The photos from the resort looked like a desktop background that comes standard with Windows, called “Paradise” or something. Laura called her mom and told her about me and my trip to Panama. Laura told me that her mom said that when I get down there, I would be welcome at Rancho de Caldera, and could stay a few days. My goal destination was no longer vaguely “Panama.” It became concrete: Luxury in the mountains of Panama.

After a such a long gap between leaving Laura and Nick in Austin and getting down to Panama, I was unsure about the situation, so when I contacted Gina, I only asked if I could stay for one night. Gina was happy to hear from me and offered to pick me up in David to help me avoid having to cycle up the mountain. It’s easy to “flow like water” when you get an offer like that. Gina had to run some errands in David anyway, so I was happy I was part of the return loop.

Five years ago, Gina bought 50 acres of land in Caldera, and moved down from Cleveland, with her husband, Chris. Just a few months ago, they were able to finally open the resort and restaurant. Unfortunately, she told me that they’re getting divorced, and they’re currently in the middle of it.

Gina’s goal for the ranch is to be completely self-sufficient. There is solar, wind, and hydro power along with a backup generator. She has a large patch of fruit trees, a vegetable garden on the roof of the restaurant, and she’s working on building a greenhouse. And she’s got income from the hotel and restaurant, and horses, which she leases for horseback riding tours.

When Gina and I arrived at the Ranch, she showed me my cabin. King-sized bed, satellite tv, massage chair, bathroom with amazing shower head, wifi!, grind and brew coffee maker with some fresh Panamanian coffee beans, and a panoramic view of the mountains through the sliding glass doors that open out to the patio. I really wanted to stay longer than just one night, so I tried weaseling my way by asking Gina if I could help around the Ranch in any way. I wanted to be useful to earn my stay. She had mentioned that some potted plants needed planting, so I offered to do that, but she told me that I could just relax.

After Gina left, I looked around the cabin, taking it all in with a “Wow” on my face. I tried everything out, and did a thorough search to find all the cool, luxurious things that I had at my disposal.

Then I went for a swim in the pool. I had waited a long time for this. The pool is the centerpiece of the photo on the website, which was the image I had had in my mind since Texas. It was sort of unreal being in that pool and looking out at the mountains. For the rest of my time at the Ranch, I made sure to get in the pool at least once each day.

At lunch, Gina and two others were at one table, and then Chris, her ex-husband was sitting alone at the next table. I sat down with him. After some initial silence, he started talking to me about how the Ranch was a vision he had in one of his dreams 25 years ago. Chris also talked openly about how he and Gina were getting divorced. It seemed awkward to me since Gina was sitting at the next table. Chris was open about a lot of things, which was cool because I was in that initial stage in a new environment where I needed to build trust and comfort. He mentioned that he was moving some stuff over to another house, so I offered to help. I wanted to be useful!

We moved some furniture and a couple of dusty rugs. Chris continued telling me about his recent life — his “awakening,” quitting drinking and smoking, and more about getting “dumped.” And it was impressive to hear about his life accomplishments and varied career. But it seemed more like a monologue. As we drove through the town of Caldera, I changed the subject, saying “It’s a pretty humble town, isn’t it?” Chris, turning it around, “Yes, and that’s the thing I am working on. Humility.”

Food

Gina told me dinner would be at 6:30 pm. I arrived on time with my crumpled long-sleeve shirt and patched-up jeans, my good clothes. It was a classy occasion as Craig, the chef, served a three-course meal with dimmed lighting and smooth music. The first night we had some badass soup, filet-mignon, and an apple dessert. His descriptions of the food were a lot better than mine. He told us that “Tonight, I went a little French,” following it up with a list of the exotic ingredients and “sprinklings” of things. It was probably the classiest meal I’ve ever had.

Each night, Craig had a new, exciting, and beautiful three-course meal. We had Indian, then country-style fried chicken and mashed potatoes (somehow done really classy – I loaded up on this meal as there were big portions, family-style), and Italian on my last night.

So I ended up staying four nights, and this is how it happened.

After dinner on the first night, I started building up to asking Gina if I could stay another night, “Gina, I was wondering if ….” and she knew right away, “You want to stay another night? No problem. We’d love to have you.” I got a tingle of goosebumps that went through my body. It was exciting, and a relief, to be able to stay.

Then the second night, my CouchSurfing contact in Panama City, Miguel, emailed me asking where I was. It turned out that he was in nearby Boquete and would be returning to Panama City in a couple of days in his truck, and would be happy to give me and my bike a ride. Flow like water, take the path of least resistance, and seize the opportunities that are presented to you. I don’t know if it could have been any better: Living in luxury for a couple of days until my ride pulled up to escort me to Panama City. I told Gina about it, and she was excited for me too, and reiterated that it would be a pleasure to have me stay a couple more days.

The next morning, Gina invited me to brunch in Boquete. A restaurant there was serving brunch for the first time and she wanted to scout the competition. We picked up her friend Howard on the way. There’s a lot of Americans living in that area, especially in Boquete. Howard took an interest in my trip, and related a few stories about his journey across America in his van when he was about 25. What’s with that age? It seems that a quarter-life crisis is common. Seeking adventure. He had fond memories of his trip and gave me a lot of encouragement on mine.

Brunch was buffet-style. I loaded and loaded. It might have been embarrassing for Gina, as by the third plate I was getting comments about how much I was eating. Hey, you gotta Flow Like Water, and take those opportunities. I’m just living the mantra.

The owner of the restaurant gave Gina a tour of his greenhouses, as she’s about to build one herself. He had one built out of bamboo, which itself is a “sustainable” building material as it regenerates quickly. It was impressive. It seemed lots of expatriates in the area were striving for self-sufficiency.

That night at dinner, it was the one with fried chicken and mashed potatoes, I ate a lot again. It was served family-style so these big bowls of food were passed around. I was at the end of the table, receiving it last, so I had the advantage of not having to leave any for anyone else. I tried to fly under the radar and not mount the food too high. I probably had two full plates, way more than anyone else, undetected, but then Craig asked, “Does anyone want this last biscuit?” Typical scenario, no one wants to take the last one. After a few seconds of no response, I offered my assistance. The straw that broke the camel’s back. People started chiming in about how much I had eaten and Gina told everyone how much I had eaten at brunch in the morning. Then there was a discussion about how many calories I must use when I’m cycling. I guess that kind of gave me an excuse for overeating, so that I didn’t look like I was just gorging selfishly.

Visiting the Rancho de Caldera was an awesome reward for me after reaching my goal destination of Panama. The luxury I lived in at the Ranch was a huge change from what I had experienced throughout Central America: eating the food of the common man, dumping cold water over myself with a basin (showers), and sleeping on straw mat beds. I made a lucky connection meeting Laura through Ryan, and Gina was incredibly generous to me. Definitely the most luxury I have ever experienced (Second Place goes to the First-Class Delta flight from Atlanta to Dublin me, my mom, and my sister got one time because the flight was overbooked). If you’re not networking, you’re not working.

Companero Colombiano Photos

Companero Colombiano

The benefit of following the coastal road in Costa Rica was that I could swim in the Pacific at the end of a day’s ride. But after Dominical, the road turned in land, so I was just looking to get to Panama quickly; riding for distance instead of destination.

As I was getting back onto the road after stopping for a drink, a touring cyclist was riding by. I shouted at him, and waved him down. For some reason, I assumed he spoke English, “Where are you from?” He didn’t understand me, and asked, “En espanol?”

Alex is from Colombia and he was cycling from Guatemala back to Medellin. He had gotten this far, almost to the Panamanian border, in only three weeks. He was carrying almost nothing on his bike. On his rear rack, he had two tiny panniers and a small bundle wrapped in a trash bag, and he was wearing a fanny pack and a backpack. I don’t know why he had a backpack; it would have been really sweaty.

I really like speaking English because it’s so easy for me, but it was great having a partner who only spoke Spanish. It forced me to stumble through it, and I was proud at how much I was able to communicate. I was really getting into the zone, and Alex was patient, and acted like he was impressed by my Spanish. He didn’t speak much English so I guess he understood my problem. Later on, Alex started using some English words he knew and used me to learn more. Whenever we were about to leave somewhere, he liked saying, “Let’s go.”

After going 80 miles, we got drenched in an afternoon downpour, and stopped in Ciudad Neily, 20 km from the border.

Panama Border Crossing

The border was slower than usual because Alex, being Colombian, had to do more to get through. And at a checkpoint 10 km after the border, we were stopped, and they searched his bags really thoroughly; mine were opened, but they were satisfied after only looking at the stuff on top. Colombians get a hard time.

At immigration on the Panama side, a guy in street clothes had some stickers hanging off his shirt. He took one off and said I needed it in my passport. Then he said it cost $1. I didn’t believe him, so as I got my passport officially stamped by an official, I asked the official if I really needed the stamp. He said I did, so I paid the guy $1. I still feel like I got ripped off.

Too Soon

Alex and I made it to David, the capital of the region, and we got a room. We went to eat at a nearby comedor, and I got $2 pescado con papas. All that ketchup on fries; it was delicious. I went back the next morning and got beef with fries for breakfast.

It was a shame that Alex and I had to split up so soon after we met, as it was great having a partner and I felt like my Spanish was improving quickly in this situation. But I was going to Boquete, a diversion from the Interamericana, and Alex needed to get back to Colombia where he has a job, a wife, and two kids waiting for him. I’m sure I’ll meet up with him again when I visit Medellin.

Southern Hospitality in Costa Rica

As I was getting ready to get back on my bike to leave Dominicalito, an overweight guy in his fifties and carrying a fishing pole asked me about my trip. Gordon was from Tennessee and had a house in the area. Apparently, everybody there called him “El Gordo” (The Fat One) since it was close to Gordon and he was sort of fat. Gordon seemed to like the name.

Gordon and his wife, Beverly, were there spending three weeks at their house. He described the place as paradise. “It’s sweet, man.”

So then Gordon said, “If you need a place to stay, you can come camp in my yard.” “Oh, wow, really?” “Yeah sure, I don’t give a fuck.” “Well, that sounds great. Thanks man.” “I mean, I’m not gay or nuthin’.” “Oh yeah, yeah. No.” It was a great offer. I never turned down generosity like that. Too bad he made that weird “gay” comment at the end.

I followed Gordon and Beverly back to their house. They welcomed me in, and immediately asked me to give them all my dirty clothes so they could put them in their washing machine. I hadn’t had my clothes washed in a machine since the US; it was a real luxury. Then they sat me down and brought me a plate of food. They liked that I was from Atlanta – fellow Southerners.

The conversation became complaints about Ticos (Costa Ricans) and living in Costa Rica. There’s a double standard: rules are enforced on gringos, but Ticos who are squatting on land break lots of rules and get away with it; there’s a gringo price for everything, and; they have to pay this Costa Rican couple $500 per month to live in their house – pretty backwards. But this “house sitting” protects the house from getting robbed by Ticos. From what I could tell, their Paradise wasn’t all that pleasant.

Gordon and Beverly took me out to the town of Dominical for a drink. We had a beer at a gringo bar where I sat down next to a bleached-hair, middle-aged English guy with a “wild” spirit. He was trying to act like my pal so he could sell me drugs. Apparently, this place was full of exiled trust-fund baby deadbeats. Their parents would send them down here to “chill out” after their reckless lifestyle had created a problem. Leeching beach-side off their parents’ deep pockets.

Whenever anything came up about me cycling, Gordon would call me “Lance Armstrong.” It made me uncomfortable for some reason.

Gordon and Beverly took really good care of me, and their generosity never felt strained. Although Gordon initially offered me a place to camp in their yard, it was never mentioned again, and I was shown a big bed in their spare room.

They mentioned that they never had children. Maybe they saw me as their son. That would be cool.

Quepos to Dominical (Costa Rica)

It wasn’t sad leaving the Belgians. We had a good time together but there really wasn’t a connection.  They were on a fat budget being in their fifties with steady jobs and touring for only three weeks.

The road to Dominical was dirt and rock for 30 miles. It was under construction, so it’ll be paved soon. I was lucky it wasn’t raining.

In the middle of the day, I stopped at the Dominicalito beach for a swim. It seemed undiscovered as there weren’t many people around and there were only a few huts. Nothing commercial.

Then an American appeared, talked to me, and offered me a place to stay.  See Southern Hospitality in Costa Rica.

Jaco to Quepos (Costa Rica)

Stats: 42.27 miles, 13 mph avg, 3:15 hours

When I returned to the campground to recover my wallet, the two deadbeats at the reception took an interest in my story. It seemed they pitied my situation – having to backtrack 30 miles on bicycle. They didn’t ask that I pay the $5 campground fee, so I didn’t offer it.

The next morning, I packed up, and was thinking, “All I have to do is get through that gate.” Not having to pay that $5 seemed like a just reward after losing my money and wasting time after forgetting my wallet. But one of the guys approached me, telling me I needed to pay. I thought they were going to let me slide.

One thing I really hate while I’m bike touring is backtracking.  Even when I’m looking for a place to eat, and someone points me to a place 500 meters back, I usually look for something else in the direction I’m going.  So, it was like murder having to travel the same boring stretch of road a third time.

But on the way, I saw the Belgian touring cyclists again! This time we were going the same direction, so I joined them. They were friendly and when we stopped for a drink, they bought me a coffee.

When I passed through the town where I realized I lost my wallet, I saw the taxi driver in the red truck. He honked at me and waved. I gave him a cold stare and an unfriendly “Hola.”  I sort of feel bad about that now — he was just trying to be friendly, but the emotion was still raw at the time.

The Belgians and I rode to Quepos and I got an $11 dorm room at a hostel named “The Wide Mouthed Frog.” What’s with these stupid hostel names? In Granada, Nicaragua, I remember passing one named “The Bearded Monkey.” They’re really embarrassing names. Like “The Squirrel Nut Zippers.” Remember that band?  Wouldn’t you hate to have them as your favorite band?  Every time someone asked you what bands you liked, you’d have to say The Squirrel Nut Zippers.

It was a pretty nice hostel though since it had a swimming pool, a kitchen, and a TV room with a big selection of DVDs. I watched Tropic Thunder. It turned out to be a pretty crappy movie.

And Quepos was a pretty crappy town. It really only serves as a base for getting to the Manual Antonio National Park with its famously scenic beach. But I didn’t go because of its $10 entrance fee. I would rather have a night in a hotel than to see a beach.

Socially-Retarded Kids

Some kids who think they are really bright, are also really stupid socially.

This one kid I met recently was about 12-years-old and he seemed to emulate his father who was an engineer. He spoke in a staccato and was precise about things, including his pronunciation. I hadn’t spoken with him, and I wanted to be friendly, but the only interesting thing I had heard about him was that he and his family lived in Nicaragua for a while. So, I asked about that, saying, “So, you lived in Nicaragua for 5 years and then moved to Colorado?” He corrected me saying it was something like 6 years, and then in a weird precise staccato, “I think the term is ‘Close but No Cigar.’” I didn’t speak to him after that. Strange thing to say. Like I was trying to get a Cigar Prize out of precisely knowing some boring fact about his life.

It reminded me of an experience I had years ago with an equally socially retarded kid. This other academically-intelligent 10-year-old came over to my mom’s house, and I was trying to make him feel comfortable. I had heard that he had built a bunch of model cars that summer, so I created conversation by relating to him how I had tried building a model car some years before and thought it was difficult. Not understanding social grace, he replied, “I think it’s very easy.”

I Forgot My Wallet

Stats: 53.40 miles, 13.8 avg, 29.2 max, 4 hours

I packed up my wet tent, and put all the loose items I took out, back in their proper places; everything in its right place. If I need something, I know in which bag to look. It slows me down when I have things scattered and out of order. It’s satisfying when I get all my stuff packed back together, all on my bike. One mobile unit.

All I needed to do before leaving was change my shorts, and I was ready to go. Since I was at a campground, I took my wallet with me to the bathroom – a security measure. I changed into my biking shorts, and then I decided to wash my underwear before I set off. I left my pocketed-shorts with my wallet on the bench outside the showers while I did laundry at the sink.

I headed off towards Quepos, a beach town about 60 miles away from Jaco. It was an unmemorable ride, and when I had gone about 25 miles, I stopped to get a yogurt drink. I waited in line, and when I got to the cashier, I opened my handlebar bag to get my wallet. I couldn’t find it – digging, digging.. “Un momento,” as I rushed outside to my bike. I opened up both panniers, digging down, throwing stuff out on the pavement. Then I thought back, retracing my steps to the last time I had seen my wallet: in my shorts, on the bench … back at the campground! I threw what was in my hands, spiking it against the pavement. I cursed and made a scene outside the supermarket. People took a wide berth as they walked around me.

It was especially frustrating that this was a result of me being careful. I took my wallet with me in my shorts while I changed, so it wouldn’t get stolen being left unattended. But then I forgot about the damn shorts when I left.

I had to go back 25 miles to Jaco. Most of all, I needed my ATM card. I wanted to get back quickly, so I decided to try to hitchhike. In an anxious, terrible mood, I went out on the road and stuck out my thumb to passing pickup trucks. I got honks and waves, but no one stopped. So, I went back towards town.

Taxi Bastards

One guy sitting on the road, flagged me down. He had seen me trying to hitchhike and told me there was a guy with a red truck that could take me to Jaco. He led me to the guy.

The guy with the red truck was a taxi driver. I told him the situation about how I didn’t have money and needed to get to Jaco. He didn’t seem interested, so he left. But there was another guy, a bystander, that took interest. He had a truck and asked me if I have money in Jaco. I told him I had money in Jaco in the morning, but I don’t know if I do now. I hope I do, but it might have been robbed at the campground. He asked if I had a friend in Jaco that has money. I told him I don’t have a friend. “No amigo? Solo?” rubbing it in. He asked again about if I have money in Jaco. He was really concerned about whether I was able to pay or not. I told him I needed help. At the end of it, he said “Adios,” and walked away.

It seemed pretty cold to me. A foreigner, lost in another country, without money, without a friend, and needing help. He walks away. After so much time spent learning about my situation, he leaves me stranded. He did his due diligence, sizing up the potential payout, and decided I wasn’t worth helping.

I got on my bike and headed towards Jaco. As I was leaving town, the guy in the red truck flagged me down. He asked me more about my situation. He asked if I have money in Jaco. I told him I hoped I did, but I wasn’t sure. We went over this a few times. Money, do you have money, what about the money. I got really frustrated with this bullshit, so I told him, it’s okay, and I left. When he flagged me down, there was a glimmer of hope he might help, but when he kept asking about the money, it fizzled quickly.

The Return Ride

I rode back to Jaco in a rage. I left my helmet swinging on the back of my bike; I didn’t want to put it on. I was already so frustrated, and I didn’t want the helmet cramping me further.

As I was getting close to Jaco, I passed some touring cyclists. They were the same ones I met on the day I was heading towards Monteverde, the Belgians; they seem to show up on my worst days. I told them about my wallet, and they told me they’d pray for me.

The Result

When I got back to the campground, I asked the guys at the reception about my black shorts. They had my shorts and my wallet! But the money in my wallet was gone. I had about $10 in there, and probably about $2 worth of coins in my coin purse – gone too. Pretty lame. Someone looks through some abandoned shorts, finds a wallet, and steals all the money. I’m glad the thief left my ATM card and my driver’s license, though, and my wallet, coin purse, and shorts too.

I’m having terrible luck in Costa Rica. And I’m aware that you make my own luck. I’ve screwed up a lot, making the wrong decisions: traveling down a horrible, mud and rock road into wilderness with a bleeding wound, heading up to an out-of-the-way mountainous, tourist destination, and now this, forgetting my damn wallet! I’ve been an idiot.

Rip-Off Policy in Costa Rica

Costa Rican colones is a difficult currency because $1 = 585 colones, so most things you buy are priced in the 1000s. The coins less than 100 colones are almost worthless, but they still exist, and a lot of items have a digit in the “tens” position. For instance, my favorite, the strawberry yogurt drink, has been priced at 1104 colones. 4 colones. What’s the point, right?

So here’s my problem with this:

The supermarkets have been “rounding down” the change owed to me, so as to benefit themselves. The first time I noticed it, my total came to 1,987, so I handed the woman 2000 colones. I waited for my change as she moved on to the next customer, totally snubbing me. I wanted at least 10 colones back; I know there’s a coin for that.

Okay, so I figured maybe they’ve developed a system where if the change is a really small amount, it’s not worth the effort to give it. But the next example proves that these supermarkets have a policy to screw the customer by always rounding down the change that’s owed.

At another supermarket, I was owed 98 colones from the transaction. I expected one 100 colones coin back, but instead, the cashier went to the trouble of giving me a 50, a 25, and two 10 coins, totaling 95 colones. I laughed when I got the change. It was absurd.

Then, here at Subway, an American chain restaurant, where I am now, I just bought a small drink, so I could get refill after refill at their self-serve fountain drink station while I write some blog entries. The total came to 710 colones. I handed over 1000 colones, and got back 300. I got back MORE than I was owed. That’s a good policy for customer service when you’re dealing with change that’s almost meaningless: round up the change that’s owed to the customer.

Water in Costa Rica

I’ve been having to buy a lot of water for my rides. I hate buying water. Coming from the US, I feel it should be free. When I’m sweating on the bike, I need a lot of it, and it sucks when you have to buy what you need a lot of. But I asked around when I was in Nicaragua, and I found a few places that had drinkable, chlorinated water, and they let me fill up my bottles. And now in Costa Rica, water is drinkable almost everywhere. I’ve heard that Panama and Colombia are the same.

Yogurt Drinks

Something I’ve been loving are yogurt drinks. During my rides, I’ve been stopping at supermarkets and getting a big, strawberry yogurt drink. I sit outside and drink big. A real treat!

Valiant Escape from Monteverde

The next morning, at 6 am, I got a bus down the mountain. I sat in a seat, although I didn’t have a ticket. As the bus got ready to leave, a bunch of backpackers started making a big deal about how some people who had made seat reservations were standing. Oh my god, we shouldn’t have to stand. We have the right to a seat. The girl next to me knew I didn’t have a ticket, and she was friendly with the backpackers; she was one of them. I could feel her wanting to rat me out.

Later, the ticket collector came around and spent a while trying to un-ply my neighbor’s ticket. Once he got it, he moved on, forgetting about me. A miracle. I got a free ride!!

Then as we were winding through mountain roads, a few people started feeling motion sickness. One guy who was standing got a pale, sickly face and sat down in the aisle. I told him to take my seat. His girlfriend made a big deal about me. “You are too kind to him. You are really too kind. Thank you so much.” The sneaking, ticketless seat-thief becomes the hero. Hero who got a free ride. My luck had changed, at least temporarily.

Monteverde: The Best Things in Life are Free

The next morning, I got up to catch an 8:30 bus to the Monteverde park, but I had missed the last one, which was at 7:30. The next bus was at 1:30pm. It was raining and miserable outside, but I decided to bike the 10 km to the park.

The dirt and rock road was mud and rock now. And rain. Probably the worst combination: riding on a mud and rock road during rain. Mud got all over my bike too. My cotton shirt was getting soaked, so I took it off to preserve some of its dryness. I felt like a shirtless maniac biking through this shit. Everyone around me was in rain gear. I was wet and cold. My bike was getting grit and mud all over it.

Then I saw a sign. $17 for entrance to the park. Wow. What a load of shit. And $20 for visitors with transportation. Why? And the sign gave the price in DOLLARS. Really bad sign.

I got to the park entrance and sat down to dry off and think about it before going in. I visualized what it would be like. Eoin trudging through mud trails, not giving a shit about the park, and with his rain jacket that’s not even waterproof. I just wanted a hot shower and to snuggle under dry blankets back at the hostel. So I was lucky to find a bus that was returning to town. I got my bike on it, and paid $1. The best dollar I spent.

I did see a lot of hummingbirds outside the entrance, along with a lot of tourists in ponchos and zip-away pants. I wanted to “grab” (a la Ryan) a photo of one guy who had a big brimmed safari hat with chin strap, poncho, zip-away pants, and Teva water shoes. Monstrosity.

So I made it all the way up to Monteverde and didn’t see the park. All I did was stay in a hostel. It was a great hostel though, and I loaded up on food because I could get it cheaply at the nearby supermarket and cook it myself. Lots of eggs and pasta and milk.

Forcing Destiny at Monteverde

I got up at 6am since I was camping and the sun came out early. On the road, I passed four touring cyclists from Belgium.

I wanted to get to the Monteverde cloud forest that day. It’s way up in the mountains and is apparently Costa Rica’s #1 tourist attraction.

When I stopped to get a yogurt drink (I love these!), I asked a guy for directions. He started speaking English, which was nice, and he was really friendly. He told me it would be tough to get up to Monteverde by bike, so he offered me a ride in his truck … for $50, with a smile on his face. Weird. I said thanks, I’m okay.

I climbed up through Las Juntas, and then when I started coming to really steep shit, I stopped and put my thumb out. The truck that was approaching as I got off my bike, stopped. The first truck! They weren’t going all the way, but they’d bring me a few kilometers. I hopped in the back.

As the truck came to a stop, all three guys got out, and the driver was telling me something I didn’t understand. After a while, and seeing the universal “money” gesture used a few times, I realized what he was offering me, but I played dumb, “No entiendo.” He wanted to bring me up the rest of the way, but for $40. I unloaded my bike, said my gracias, and tried to get away as smoothly as possible.

I waited under a bus stop for a while, looking for some more rides. After about an hour, I decided Monteverde probably isn’t worth it. I got a bad feeling about it since it’s a big tourist attraction and two locals tried to make a lot of money off me by offering me transport up there. That’s a bad sign.

So I decided that if I don’t get a ride with the next vehicle that passes, I’m leaving. I was straddled on my bike when a truck pickup approached with two guys hanging out the back. They stopped for me, and said they were going “close” to Monteverde. I got in. Destiny, I figured.

The truck brought me about 10 km, and the paved road turned to dirt and rock. The guy dropped me at a sign that said “Monteverde 15 km.” Now I was stuck. Dirt, rock road in both directions. And there weren’t many passing cars. Everybody who passed was going down the mountain. I decided to go up.

It was horrible. I was pushing my bike up the hills most of the time since the rocks were so loose and the road so steep. I biked in my lowest gears when I could, but when I started losing my balance, I got off, and pushed. The descents were equally as difficult, and possibly more dangerous. It was hard to control my bike when I was walking it down; I had to pull back as the weight was surging forward, and my stiff-soled bike shoes kept slipping on the loose gravel.

I was creeping. Pushing the bike, I was going about 2.5 mph, and biking, I was moving at about 4 or 5 mph. This went on for about 2 hours, and I was still 8 or 9 km away.

I stuck my thumb out at passing delivery truck and it stopped. Carlos helped me load my bike in the back; it was a much more difficult lift since the truck bed was much higher than a pickup. He gave me some bananas and called me “my friend.” I told him he saved me. But then he dropped me 3 km outside of town. Carlos, save me, really save me.

I stopped at an information place that had a free map. They guy told me I could camp at Sunset Hotel for $6. Everything else in town was $15 or more. Overpriced, shitty, tourist town. Mistake, mistake.

Sunset Hotel was on a road outside of town, up some damn hills. I showed up and asked how much to camp. The girl didn’t even know; camping seemed absurd. She called her boss, and reported $10. You suck, Sunset Hotel. I left.

Luckily, I found a great place in town, a hostel, for $7 a night. It had a kitchen. Then I took a shower and it was hot. The first hot shower I’ve had since the US. That night, there was roaring wind and heavy rain. I imagined getting blown around and really wet, and for $10. That would have really put a cap on my shitty time in Monteverde. I was really happy being warm in a bed.

Mango Trees

I’ve been finding mango trees along the roads I’ve been traveling, and I’ve been able to knock a few down. Mangoes, right from the tree. Where else can you do that?!