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.

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?!

Playa del Coco to Nicoya

Stats: 54.90 miles, 13.1 mph avg, 4 hr

It was an unmemorable ride, but at the end of the day, I stopped at a bar, next to a big soccer field, and asked if I could camp there, very directly. “Tengo una casita. Puedo campar aqui?” Luckily, the owner didn’t mind, and told me, “No hay problema.”

I set up my tent and then asked to use the bathroom to shower. Then I asked where I could do some laundry. Then I asked what they had to eat. I felt like a very demanding guest. But I wanted to eat at the place as a way to pay them for letting me camp there. And I got a big fish.

Pura Vida!!h

Nightmare Road: 24 Hours of Hell

After saying goodbye to my Italian cycling partner, Antonio, and crossing into Costa Rica from Nicaragua, it was getting late in the day, but I wanted to make it to this National Park – Santa Rosa -  so I could camp. I didn’t really know how far away it was, but I wanted to get there.

As I passed a town, La Cruz, I was going down a hill at a good speed, 15-20 mph, when I swayed towards the side of the road where there was a dip, a little curb, like two levels in the road. As I came to the dip, I was trying to turn myself back onto the road, and this got me unstable, and I couldn’t hold on. My bike fell to the side and I went with it, clipped in to the pedals. I slid on the road for maybe 10 feet when I came to a stop. My left knee and my bike got the worst of it. My left knee got torn up badly and I could see bright white skin with blood coming quickly. I let out an “ahhhh” but to no one; I just wanted to yell, I guess. My handlebar and brake lever got scraped badly and my left pannier got scraped too and now there’s a hole in the bottom corner I have to stitch up. I got a moist wipe from my handlebar bag, and then some rubbing alcohol from my pannier. I let the alcohol burn up my wound — it felt good and gave me a sense that it got clean. It didn’t really though.

(I’m glad there wasn’t any traffic coming when I fell.  I probably would have been killed.)

It was about 3pm, and I wondered if I should turn back to La Cruz, which I had just passed, and stay there for the night, and rest my leg. As I stood up, I figured I would be okay. I still didn’t know how far the park was, but I assumed it would be close. I kept going.

I saw a sign saying 12 miles to a town nearby the park. I could do it. My knee was bleeding badly, and the blood was streaking down onto my sock. I kept having to stop to wipe it up; I didn’t want to get my sock stained. Then I wrapped my bike-greased washcloth just under my wound and secured it with a rubber band so that it would sop up the seeping blood.

12 miles later, I saw a sign for Santa Rosa — 12 miles. Another damn 12 miles. I kept going.

I finally got to the entrance of the park at 5pm. There wasn’t a ranger in the front office. I saw a map. To get to the camping area at the beach, 12 miles. Endless 12 miles. I rode into the park on a paved road for a few miles then I saw a turn off for the beach.

It would be about 7 miles to get to the beach on a dirt, rock road. There was a sign that said driving was not recommended, walking is better, drive at your own risk. At first, the road wasn’t too bad, just a few rocks in the dirt. The rocks got bigger and more frequent. Then mud pits appeared. Then descents of loose, big rocks. I had to get off my bike most of the time. I was feeling sorry for my bike; I had no idea what kind of damage I was doing to it. I was cringing for my wheels as I was clunking over these rocks.

It was getting dark as I was walking my bike through this nightmare road. I was really hungry, and I had no hope of eating. I had eaten at 10:30 am, and nothing since. But I had a lot of water. At least I wouldn’t die out here. I took out my bike light and strapped it to the handlebar.

It got pitch black with only my bike light illuminating my path through rocks and mud. The bike was really heavy as I had to push it up hills and keep it from running down descents. Pushing it over these rocks was terrible. Then I had to go through some of these mud pits since there was no high side I could walk on. My feet sunk down, and my wheels picked up generous amounts of mud. Pushing the bike got harder as the mud got stuck up inside the fender, so it was like pushing the bike with the brakes engaged.

It was 8pm. I had been pushing my damn bike for 2.5 hours. I was exhausted, my knee was bloody and crusting in spots, I was hungry, and there was still no campsite. I parked my bike and walked without it to see if the campsite was up ahead. 15 minutes later, still nothing. I gave up. I walked the bike back to an area that looked okay for camping.

I set up a humble camp in the dark. Bugs were interested in me, and especially my bloody knee; the small flies feasted. The park is supposed to have 3800 species of moth — one thing they all have in common is that they love my bike light.

My knee had become a black, crusty mess. It was still oily and bloody in the center though. I poured some more alcohol on it, and then I jumped into my sweaty tent. There was lots of wind high in the trees above, but I didn’t get much breeze, and I had my rain fly on. I started worrying that some huge branch would fall on top of me, since my luck had been bad so far. I lay there on my sleeping mat, naked, sweating, bloody knee, hungry, and very, very alone — I hadn’t seen anyone, even though I called out “HOLA!” a number of times. I couldn’t sleep. I was exhausted, but I couldn’t sleep.

I got up at 6am, packed up, and moved out of there, back onto the dreaded, nightmare road I came in on. 7 miles of hell. I wanted to wait for a truck to pick me up and bring me out of there, but I hadn’t seen one, the rangers didn’t know I was in there, and I was down to one big bottle of water. I had to bail myself out, and not sit around all day hoping for a miracle. Plus I needed to beat the heat of the day.

On the return trip, I had more hills to push my bike up. Rocky, damn climbs. My body was slick with sweat, and my stomach was empty. I got out of there in 2 hours.  And I passed the warning sign at the entrance to that damn road.

I loved getting back onto paved road, but the next problem was the ranger station at the front entrance. I did not want to pay for this experience. I was adamant I was not going to pay. Probably some damn entrance fee to the park, plus a camping fee. I hadn’t been able to use any of there facilities, and I had traveled on the worst road of my life. I cruised over the speed bump at the ranger’s office and got the hell out of there. They didn’t stop me.

I’ve found out that Costa Rica’s got long stretches of road with nothing. I’m used to seeing some small convenience stores (tiendas) or cheap, family-run restaurants (comedors). But I didn’t see anything. Liberia, the next big town, was over 20 miles away. I was biking fast for a while, as my interest in eating was spurring me on, but then a heavy wind hit me as I was passing through some open plains. I was suffering. The sun beating down and the wind holding me at about 8 mph.

I was thinking of Subway. I wanted a damn, Subway sandwich. Something familiar and really good. As I got into Liberia, I asked some guys about it. They told me there was a Subway!! I got in there, just over 24 hours since my last meal. My water bottles were empty. I was going to go wild. I got a meatball sub with everything on it, and a small drink, as I espied the fountain drink was a self-serve, a rarity outside the US. I had Coke, Flor de Jamaica, Iced Tea, and two more Cokes. My teeth had a solid sugar grit on them when I was done.

I was considering staying in Liberia, but there wasn’t anything there, really. I decided to go to the beach, which was 20 miles away. I felt good biking that stretch as the wind was with me, and my stomach was full.

I made it to Playa del Coco, treated myself to a shitty cabina (room) for $7 — I didn’t care at this point after all I’d been through — and got into the Pacific. I cleaned my knee in the salt. All the black crud and scab came off, and it felt clean getting all that salt water on it.

That National Park and rock, dirt road was one of the worst decisions I’ve made. I’ve been successful when I “flow like water,” but this time I forced it.  I should have stopped after I fell off my bike, but I kept going because I had a destination in my mind.  I forced destiny and I got screwed.  And I kept saying to myself as I was pushing the bike, “Dirt Road — Never Again.” It does too much damage to the bike, and getting through it is always a horrible experience.

Goodbye Antonio, Hello Costa Rica

Antonio and I had been traveling together for two weeks.  We had shared a lot of meals, played a lot of chess, and cycled through three countries (El Salvador, Honduras, and Nicaragua).  Antonio wanted to stay in Nicaragua to find some volunteer work, and I wanted to keep moving.  We shared our last supper in Rivas, after getting a ferry back to the mainland from Ometepe.

A weird goodbye photo.  Short-looking Antonio.

It wasn’t too far to Costa Rica.

But the border crossing took about an hour and a half.  The Nicaragua side was bullshit too.  They charged me $1 to enter the border zone, then $2 to exit the country.

Central American Entry Fees

Here is what I had to pay when I entered each of these countries (July 2009).

Guatemala: ~$1 (I forget exactly)
El Salvador: free (and they don’t even stamp your passport)
Honduras: $3
Nicaragua: $10 [$7 to enter with lots of paperwork, then $1 to enter the border area in Sapoa at Costa Rican border (weird), then $2 to exit the country, paid only in Cordobas or US Dollars (so don't change your money until you get to the other side – I made that mistake)]
Costa Rica: free (but long lines at Penas Blancas, coming from Nicaragua)
Panama: $1 (for a stupid passport sticker you buy from an unofficial-looking guy who hangs out by the immigration area, but apparently you need it)

You get 90 days of travel within the four countries of “centroamerica:” Guatemala, El Salvador, Honduras, and Nicaragua.