The plane touched down in San Jose, Costa Rica around 9pm. We made our way through the airport, claimed our bags and set off to get a cab. It was Vi’s job to get one since I neither spoke the language or knew where we were going.
She found a private taxi to take us to the hotel. He had quoted her $30 for the trip but after arriving at the hotel about a half hour later, he presented us with the bill and charged us per person so the total cost ended up being $60. I didn’t find that out until our return trip. I hadn’t figured out the money yet and thought it was only $20 for the ride.
The hotel was a place Vi used to stay. She knew the people at the front desk pretty well and we got a decent little room in the back for $20 a night. It was also walking distance to all the Bus Terminals.
We planed on spending only one night in San Jose before heading north to Liberia where we would be meeting Uncle D. He was actually a friend’s uncle but that’s all I ever heard him called.
After spending a couple hours in the shopping district the next morning we were both in agreement that we would spend another night as we were both too tired to continue pushing on to Liberia.
The main shopping district of San Jose is definitely something worth experiencing. The streets surrounding this district are narrow, packed with cars, scooters, and anything else that starts and runs.
The cars seem to have their own language. Short and long beeps combined to form some sort of code which conveyed everything from "Hey, I’m coming over" to " Don’t even try, there’s not enough room" and " You fucking bastard, you almost hit me".
In the central part of the district you’ll find pedestrians and Police on motorbikes. You’ll also find armed guards at the entrances of 60% of the businesses; the other 40% just aren’t worth robbing.
A local later told me it was a way to create jobs it wasn’t really that dangerous. I’m guessing that was his way of making me feel better. It was also complete bullshit. A story in the Tico Times that day pretty much confirmed this as it was all about the rise in gun violence and the increase in gun sales as more Ticos armed themselves for protection.
Back at the hotel, the guy who ran the place told me a friend could get me some weed and if I wanted he would make a call, the guy would bring it to us. I had him make the call and waited.
I asked what he could get, and was told that he could get the really good stuff, the Creepy. I would soon learn that the Creep is a rare and elusive strain. It’s the Costa Rican Hydro and although everybody says they can get it, it seems that it can rarely be found.
A short time later he pulled up. A few words were exchanged between the driver and my new found concierge. We were then told that he had to go get it and we should go with him.
I was about to decline when Vi, being a little drunk and eager to dust off her Spanish language skills by brokering a drug deal, eagerly hoped in the front seat telling me to either hop in back or wait for their return. With no real choice, I hoped in.
At this point the deal had already gone south. Vi certainly had a lot in the way of street smarts but still she broke the cardinal rule that you NEVER go with guy you just met to pick up the shit you want to buy.
After being driven through the maze of streets that is San Jose we found ourselves somewhere, which is the best you can hope to come up with since you have no idea where you are or how to get back.
We were parked in a residential area waiting for him to return with the weed. When he did he had two quarter ounce bricks of Columbian Pressed. I tried to have some say in what was going down but Vi would have nothing to do with it. I was just along for the ride and she made it very clear to me that she was going to handle this deal.
In the end we really had no choice but to buy the half ounce for $60 or run the risk of getting dumped there and robed anyhow trying to find our way back. Getting hustled is better than getting robbed, since I’d at least have something to smoke.
He dropped us back at the hotel slightly worse for the wear, having spent $53 more than the going rate for a half ounce of Columbian Pressed. As it turns out the average price for an ounce of Columbian Pressed is $14 to $28 depending on how many people it goes through before getting to you. At the most you shouldn’t pay more than $35 to $40 per ounce and that’s being philanthropic about it.
I had brought a pack of Juicy Jay’s Blueberry papers and a pack of Watermelon flavored ones. From what Vi had told me before the trip, I knew I’d be smoking a lot of low grade reefer. The flavored papers really help when you have to choke down a couple joints to get high. I rolled a couple of blueberry sticks and puffed them down behind the hotel.
It was a beautiful day, the sun was out and there was a slight breeze. Behind the hotel a river ran at the bottom of a steep ravine which was littered with paper and plastic debris. The water its self was probably the foulest I had ever come across.
Costa Rica is the fastest growing country in Central America; unfortunately they haven’t invested in an infrastructure capable of handling the growth. As a result, pollution is a huge problem. The beaches, especially those on the Northern Pacific side fail to meet safe standards for industrial pollutants as well as raw sewage.
From what I’d been hearing and reading, what were once pristine beaches are now quit literally litter boxes for vacationers and retirees who ironically frolicked in their own shit.
After another night in San Jose, I was glad to be getting out and spending a few days exploring the Pacific side of Costa Rica. We headed to the Coca-Cola Bus terminal, located in what was the country’s first Coca-Cola plant. The station is now closed.
After some questionable directions we headed off to find the Central Bus Station. We never did find it and ended up at one across town courtesy of a local city bus driver who knew where we wanted to go and a place that would get us there.
Four hours later we were in Liberia. There’s one rest break two hours into the trip. I tried the best I could to hold back my bladder but it was too weak from the beating it was getting from the potholes. There was no way I was going to make it and I learned just how important it is to have a wide mouthed empty plastic bottle with you.
We made it to Liberia as the sun was setting. I gave Uncle D a call and he arrived about twenty minutes later, ten minutes later we were at his house. We spent a little time getting acquainted before Vi and I heading to the local market to purchase some smokes, Cacique, Costa Rican made Rum and the National Beverage, as well as a bottle of Flor De Cana for our host. On our return, I rolled several joints and Uncle D and I smoked. Vi stuck to the rum, weed just isn’t her thing. I’ve heard stories about people who freak the fuck out when they get high, but had never witnessed before until Vi. After once smoking half a joint of trimmings with her, I swore to never do it again.
We had hoped that Uncle D would put us up for a couple nights but at this point I didn’t see it happening. He had to make an unplanned trip to Nicaragua the next day to look at some property and could be gone a day or two. We expressed interest by letting him know how great we thought the trip would be but didn’t get an invite. He did say he was getting up early and would be happy to drop us off at the bus station.
We were up an hour before Uncle D and Vi was upset to say the least and a little unhinged about not having a place to stay in town. She had counted on him putting us up for a couple nights at least. As for me, I never counted on anything and knew that our stay at there was tenuous at best.
Buses were cheap and I finally got her to agree to go to Playa de Coco and Tamarindo, two of the nearby costal towns. We’d find a cheap place to stay for a couple nights before heading all the way across the country to the southern most part of the Caribbean coast.
Before leaving, I gave Uncle D an eighth ounce of the Columbian Brick Weed and a bunch of blueberry and watermelon rolling papers. I figured this covered the gas and overnight accommodations. He dropped us off at the bus station shortly after dawn and we set off in search of breakfast.
Being the pack mule, by the time I caught up to Vi and she had already ordered a coffee and breakfast. I motioned to the waitress that I would have the same and ordered a Café con leche (coffee and milk). I did it in Spanish which was a big accomplishment for me.
Vi was apparently upset. After a bit of coercing she finally told me she had ordered the coffee for me and the waitress had forgotten the milk. I had assumed it was hers since she always ordered it black. In the hopes of avoiding having it happen again, I told her that I was a big boy and could order for myself.
She threw her fork onto the plate, a few choice words at me and stormed off leaving me sitting alone trying to choke down my breakfast while smiling at the waitress.
A short time later she came walking up, tears in her eyes. All she could say was that she just wanted to go home, go to Puerto Viejo.
Vi had spent a year living there and considered the town her home. It’s located about 13 miles from the Panamanian border along the Caribbean Coast. I comforted her and we got our tickets back to San Jose where we would catch our next bus. She slept the first few hours of the trip and when she awoke she was sweet and apologetic pointing out that she was still a bit drunk that morning and thus subject to emotional turmoil.
Three hours into the ride the bus broke down. Judging by the smoke and sound of the engine struggling to hold on to life for just a few moments longer, it was clear that we weren’t going much further.
We abandoned the bus and waited to see what would happen next. I broke out the weed and proceeded to roll the fat blueberry stick. I had just finished when a cop on motorbike pulled up to tend to the traffic until they could get the broken down bus off the road. I stashed the joint under some leaves and pulled a cigarette up to my mouth. Even if you’re not a tobacco smoker I suggest you keep a pack on you. They good for giving out instead of money, best done as you smile while repeatedly saying, "No hablo ", and make a great cover should you need one.
Robbed of the experience of smoking a joint while stranded by the side of a jungle road somewhere in a Central American, I spent some time talking to Travis who had been traveling around Central America for the past three months and he assured us that we weren’t missing anything by not going to the Northern Pacific side of the Costa Rica.
According to him the costal towns there consisted of condos and the shops and restaurants that the people in the condos frequent. He also made a point of stating the beaches tended to be littered with passed out druggies.
Travis did recommend Samara a small fishing village that sees few tourists as they tend to head to Montezuma, which seemed to be the primary destination for backpackers and the more adventurous travelers on the Pacific side of the country.
A short time later another bus pulled up. It was from a different company and we could take it the rest of the way to San Jose for full fair or wait three hours for another bus from Liberia. We chose to keep going.
I grabbed the joint and our bags, we hoped on the bus, and an hour and a half later we arrived at the Central Bus Terminal in San Jose.
It turns out; we weren’t off by much when searching for it a day earlier, so we skipped the cab ride to the Caribbean Bus Terminal since Vi now knew where she was and how to get to the next bus station. For anybody else, head my words and take a cab. It shouldn’t cost more that $5. Four and a half hours later, for a total of nine hours that day on the bus, we arrived in Puerto Viejo.
The bus unloaded and Vi went to find her friend Verd, the taxi driver. I tended to the bags and I made a point of watching over them like a "mad dog", which is how Vi describes it.
Verd wasn’t there but he did have somebody waiting for us. Vi introduced me to our driver after he unsuccessfully tried twice to pick up one of our bags. We took a short ride across town and down a side road to the compound where Vi had once kept a room.
She had heard from Verd that her old room was available and that he had told Roy, her old landlord, we were coming into town. When we arrived we discovered that the room wasn’t available but that he might have another room, a much nicer one at that, available in a couple days. Until then we’d have to find another place for a few nights. I waited with the bags while Vi went to the surrounding cabinas to find a room.
She checked three or four places, none had any vacancies. We figured we’d have to walk further out of town to find a place and left our bags with Memo, a close friend of Vi who now kept a room in the compound.
Their relationship was one that would be tough for me to deal with as they had been close to the point that she was simply known in town as Memo’s wife. She also still cared for him very much. Fortunately for me he wasn’t home at the time but his door was unlocked so we stashed our bags and headed out.
As we walked past a dimly lit driveway of a café around the corner I noticed a sign for Cabinas Kire down the end of the drive. I went down and happened upon Hank. He had a vacancy two driveways down where he was taking care of a place for a friend who was out of town. It turned out to be a great little place in a perfect location and it was only $20 per night.
On our second night in town we ran into Jenny at Buen Precio, the small market on the corner just after you cross over the bridge on the main road into town and at the bottom of the road leading up into the ghetto. Needless to say, it’s not the place to hang around after dark. If anything bad happens in town, it’s usually at that corner or right where the road crosses the bridge.
Jenny was homeless at the moment. From what Vi had told me about her and that she was one of the few she truly regarded as a friend. She was somebody who would take a knife for her, which is what she once did. The next thing on Vi’s list was to get her a tent.
The next day we heard back from Roy. He wouldn’t have a room available for a few weeks more. We hadn’t budgeted for such expensive digs so the next day I’d have to scout for a cheaper place.
The next morning I set out to Cocles, a couple miles down the road. I was on my way to check on a place that Vi’s friend Patrick (Capt. Zero) had recommended the day before.
On my way I ran into Hank and told him our predicament and that we needed to find a place for $10 per night for the next fourteen nights. He said that he’d give us the place we were at that rate since we were staying long term.
I headed back to the cabina relieved that I no longer had to worry about a place to stay or Vi breaking down over the prospect of ending up on the beach so soon after her return.
By now I had puffed through most the weed I picked up in San Jose. I headed to Café Rico, located just off the main street. My best advice to anybody is, go there and order a coffee, sit down for a bit and talk to your fellow patrons. It’s a good place to get your bearings regarding what’s available around town and what the prices are.
I left there having met a few interesting ex-pats and with a gram of Moroccan Hash for $20 in my pocket. The Hash was decent considering don’t care much for Moroccan Hash. It always leaves a funny taste in my mouth, no doubt from whatever they use in the manufacturing process.
The next morning I was down at Franks’ money exchange. They can do anything the bank can and transfer funds directly from your Bank of America account to theirs. This means you can access your bank online, transfer the funds yourself and the money will be waiting for you to pick up. There’s usually no wait, unlike the bank which tends to have long line and the ATM machine is notorious for running out of cash. If you’re card isn’t a visa debit card and requires the pin number to use, then you’re pretty much screwed. If the ATM does actually accept your card and it has cash then it’ll save you a trip two hours north to Limon.
I withdrew the money for the cabina, the bus trip to Limon and to get Jenny a tent, plus about $100 pocket money then headed back to the cabina.
After Vi woke and composed herself we headed to town. While passing the taxi stand she spotted Verd. We hadn’t seen him yet and she ran off to give him a hug. They talked for a bit then Vi asked if I wanted to go to BriBri, an Indian village in the mountains, to look for a tent.
Vi ran off to buy some Bamboo and Cuba Libra, pre mixed Rum & Cola in a can, for the trip. I’m not sure what the laws are regarding drinking and driving, or even if they have them.
It’s not uncommon to see a person driving down the road with a beer in hand. Given how many potholes you have to avoid, I doubt it would be possible to know who was drunk and who wasn’t.
After a kidney jarring forty minute cab ride through the jungle, which was well worth it for the scenic beauty alone, we arrived in BriBri.
Verd stopped at a local shop to ask where the best place in town was to find a tent. It turned out there wasn’t a tent in town to be had. In the jungle you’ll find the oddest things for sale in the oddest places but today we would have to look elsewhere for a tent. We decided to try Chase, the next town down and across the river into Panama.
The road out of town comes to an end another breathtakingly scenic and bumpy forty minutes later. Verd picked a shady place to park while he waited for us to cross the river into Panama and back.
We made our way down to the river bank and waited for the boatman. For about 60 cents he will ferry you across the river and back. The boat is was one of the many dugout style canoes you see throughout the area.
The boats are long, narrow and feel as if they have no stability whatsoever. You almost want to hold your breath on the trip across because the mere act of breathing alone seems enough to send the thing rolling over into greenish murky water.
We landed safely in Panama and made our way up to the riverbank. There were four or five shops filled with the latest fashion and electronics, and a little place to grab lunch and a beer. The prices were all comparable to those in the States. Actually when you take into account all those great sales and clearances, shit’s cheaper in the States. But hey, where else are you going to find a flat screen TV or Pumas and Sketchers in the middle of the jungle.
We found one tent, a small purple one made for a kid. Fortunately Jenny was small enough to curl up inside and it would protect her from things that crawl in the night, which there are a lot of. We also purchased a canopy that she could put over the tent to ensure the rain would stay out.
There was some confusion regarding the price. We thought that it would be about $30 for both items. It turned out that it was more like $70. Vi discovered this when she went to pay. I wanted to talk the guy down or at least decline the canopy since we could just get her a tarp at a fraction of the price. I was quickly shot down as she pointed out that they had already packed up the canopy.
With Jenny’s new home in hand we headed back across the river into Costa Rica, having spent about an hour in Panama. It’s actually a worthwhile trip even if it’s just for a few beers.
On our way out we passed several people headed there on scooters and motorbikes, which looks likes a good idea at first but be ready to take one hell of an ass pounding. Vi even recognized Juppe, one of the local tour guys Puerto Viejo.
After arriving back in town, Vi unburdened me of most the remaining money to pay for the cab ride. The total cost of the trip was $60. There was another $80 for the tent and canopy and we also picked up some small speakers for Vi’s cd player which added $20 to the bill for a total of $160.
We could have saved a lot by having one of the local tour guides take us, but Verd was Vi’s friend and she wanted to spend some time with him, so we coughed up the cash and hired him to take us. After all, he’s got to earn a living and the trip certainly helped him in that regard
That evening, Vi went to see Memo. When she arrived he and Jenny were playing box. It’s a game played predominately by the crack-heads of the Talamanca coast and is generally accepted as having originated in Puerto Viejo.
A matchbox is used and the players take turns flipping the box, trying to get it to stand on end, thus earning one point. No points are given for a box that lands on its side and the first player to reach three points wins. It also costs a crack rock to get in the game.
I actually got pretty good at it playing with Vi, only we played shits and giggles. It’s also a game you don’t want to sit around playing in public as the locals will take a rather dim view of you.