The Magical Santa Cruz Cheese Festival Of Turrialba

Costa Rica's Largest Cheese...Ever.

Cheese, cheese and more cheese.  The Santa Cruz Feria Del Queso (Santa Cruz Cheese Festival) is perhaps Costa Rica's greatest undiscovered culinary event for any tourist who does not mind severe constipation.  It is a month of dairy delight culminating in the final Sunday unveiling of Costa Rica's largest cheese.  Ever.  It will probably remain undiscovered by most tourists because, even with an automobile, getting to this pretty village in the scenic mountains is a real bitch.  The logistics of traveling in Costa Rica  -a country which has only recently discovered street signs- figured importantly into this trip.

The festival, like all diary products, has its origin in the introduction of foreign cultures.

Costa Rica frequently gets called, "The Switzerland Of Central America," a title which it attributes to its relative stability, prosperity and neutrality as a country in a region of the world that is often known for poverty, drug cartels, military coups and kidnappings.  This safety is debatable, but Costa Rica does resemble Switzerland in a more concrete aspect.  Its mountainous interior resembles the green, verdant rolling topography that we typically associate with that little, neutral, secret-bank-account European country.

These udders are going places

The geographical resemblance is most obvious in the providence of Turrialba.  The region sits at a high elevation, which causes a year-round cool, rainy climate that contrasts with Costa Rica's reputation for sunny beaches.  In the 1850s this climate attracted Spanish immigrants from the La Mancha region (yeah, the Don Quixote place), where they have a long history of dairy production.  The immigrants domesticated some cows, developed farms and quickly built a reputation for the best dairy products in Costa Rica.

While taking the bus on winding Highway 230, the orderly checkerboard farm plots, green rolling hills, tall haystacks and grazing cows made me recall previous summer trips through Switzerland and southern Germany.  My Argentinian friend and I had looked for a big event to finish her Costa Rican vacation, and the "Santa Cruz Feria Del Queso" came up that weekend.  Neither of us were lactose intolerant, so we booked a night at the Casa De Lis Hostel in Turrialba and planned out our travel route with a little help from my roommate, who is from Turrialba.

1. From San Jose take a bus to Cartago.  There are a few options, but Lumaca is the easiest choice. What's most important is that you arrive before 10:00am.

2. Gemon operates bus lines from Cartago to Santa Cruz de Turrilba.  The first one leaves at 10am.  There is another bus that departs at noon.  Leave any later than that and you will miss most of the festival.

3. Most important: indicate to the bus driver that you want to stop at "Santa Cruz de Turrialba."  If you don't speak Spanish, just shout "Santa Cruz, Feria Del Queso!" and make loud "MOOO!" cow sounds.  The driver will drop you off at the highway entrance that is about a quarter mile walk from the fair grounds.  It will be muddy.

Santa Cruz Cheese Festival Fairgrounds

When we stepped off the bus, we congratulated ourselves on bringing jackets and umbrellas.  The mist that we saw coating the green mountains gave the scenery a dreamy quality from inside the bus.  Outside the bus, it simply felt cold and wet.  Fortunately, the majority of the Cheese Festival is held under a giant shed and large tents.  They know their climate, and the temperature heats up quickly once the band starts playing.

Turrialba Spanish

The Cheese Festival fairgrounds are essentially divided into two parts: the stands and the restaurants.  The free-standing tents are where the farmers and vendors sell packaged dairy products and various traditional knick-knacks.  The permanent, tin-roofed shed covers the temporary kitchens where the villagers cook up fresh meals.  Underneath the happy buzz of people eating, drinking and talking there's a constant background sound of mooing from the dozens of cows being housed in a large shed just down the hill.

Before visiting the Cheese Festival, my knowledge of dairy products was pretty much restricted to milk and cheese.  The farmers of Santa Cruz blew that door wide open.  I had learned a lot of Costa Rican Spanish and my Argentinian friend could easily read the menus, but the local Turrialban expressions used for the dishes gave us no clue of what we would eat.  Rosquillos?  Papin de Leche?  Gallos de Ternero?  Leche Volcanica...

Volcanic Milk?? Sounds painful.

The easiest thing to do was to try everything.

Tortillas de Queso (Cheese Tortillas) looked like the most straightforward thing to start with.  It was simply that: a thick piece of bread made with flour and white cheese mixed together.  It tastes fine by itself, and even better with a spoonful of mild salsa or light sour cream on top.  The best way to wash this down is with a glass of Volcanic Milk.  The "volcanic" part comes from the shot of rum and coffee they add to the milk.  Think of it as a Tropical White Russian (or El Lebowski Grande.)

Cheese Tortillas with Volcanic Milk

Chicarrones De Queso: addictive

Desserts made up the majority of our meal.  Papin de Leche (Milk Daddy?) is a type of flan, but fresher thanks to our bovine neighbors.  Chicarrones de Queso (Cheese Chicarrones) worried me at first.  I imagined Mexican chicarrones, which are basically pork rinds.  What I got was similar to crack cocaine, but way more addictive.  Take white Turrialba cheese and then fry it in caramel.  As a red-blooded American, I believe anything is better fried.  I ordered two packages of it and finished the first one in 10 minutes.


After eating we went to the vendors' tents to see what we could take home.  Almost all the products were fresh from the farm; the cheeses squeaked and the sour creams practically dripped from their bags.  I purchased a bag of sour cream, some sweet buns, a liter of rum-and-milk cocktail called rompope, and a block of smooth, white Turrialba cheese dotted with red and green peppers.  My Argentinian friend had a little more difficulty.  Since she was boarding a plane soon, she needed something that could pass through customs easily.  Eventually we found a vendor who sold their cheese in sealed, air-locked plastic bags.

I got constipated just looking at it.

In the history of culinary events it was epic, but as usual the specter of Costa Rica's confusing public transportation reared its ugly head.  Despite a clearly-posted online schedule, and confirmation from the locals, the bus we planned to take back to Turrialba failed to appear at 5:30pm.  This was not unusual.  At 6pm the bus failed to appear again, but we were still laughing about Latinos and their chronic lateness.  When the bus failed to appear 15 minutes later, and continued to do so for the next hour, we became concerned.

We were not simply naive tourists unaware of local practices.  Ten other Costa Ricans were stranded with us on the side of the road, all complaining about the atrocious state of their country's public transportation.

It ended well.  After nearly two hours of hoping and wondering and waiting, a bus --which was not the one we wanted-- arrived to take us to a nearby small town.  We were still nearly 10 miles from Turrialba and it was nightfall.  Luckily, some of the other stranded Costa Ricans had friends in the small town who kindly gave us a ride to our hostel in Turrialba.  We dined and drank with the other hostel guests and soon passed out, completely exhausted.

The followed morning we made a dairy breakfast out of the sweet buns, sour cream, cheese and alcoholic rompope.  I was not able to shit for the next three days.  This is a small price to pay for visiting the magical Santa Cruz Cheese Festival of Costa Rica.

Sweet Buns, Sour Cream and Rompope

  

Bocas Del Toro: Red Frog Beach...Has Red Frogs

"You foto? Money, Money, Money?!"

You think I would've learned by now.  Some cute kids show me a palm leaf full of little red frogs, on Red Frog Beach in Panama.  I take a picture.  They start yelling: "Money, Money, Money?!"

Whatever.  Take the damn money.  We're all rich white people anyway, tu sabes?  I'm more annoyed with all the gringos who have came here before me and encouraged this kind of soft scam business.  The kids are just too damn cute to get mad at, even though they are little scam artists.

This is the tourist industry outside of the Western world: from the big international agencies booking all-inclusive's down to the little street kids charging for pictures.  The backpacker community can avoid the international travel agencies (indeed it's a mark of their "independence") but when it comes to local businesses, anyone is fair game, from the senior citizens on their disposable income to the grungy, unwashed student on a gap year.

The amazing thing is how many independent Western backpackers still assume that local businesses in underdeveloped countries operate like they do in the first world.  They feel uncomfortable that there are rarely fixed prices for goods and services, and they complain about having to pay cash for everything.  Or even worse, they try to be an "in-the-know" savvy backpacker and start with a ridiculously low offer for a local service, and still don't get why the guy won't give their cracker-ass a better deal than a local.

Anyway, you should go to Red Frog Beach.

A Random Tour Boat Company

Our little Spanish, Argentinian and Gringo trio booked a boat to Bastimento Island with an "official" tour boat.  I hesitate to call it an official business because, being in Panama, they have a office and employees, but don't have travel insurance, safety waivers, emergency contacts and all that legal shit which we find so annoying in the United States.  As annoying as it is, if something does go wrong, most Americans are happy to have the paperwork to help their lawyer build a substantial lawsuit against the (incorporated) company.

The boat company quoted an initial price of seven dollars per person to take us to Bastimento Island.  We said that was fine, at which point they mentioned -oh, by the way- beautiful Red Frog and Wizard Beaches are on the opposite side of the island from the dock where we drop you off.  For an additional three dollars, there is a truck (conveniently) waiting at the dock to take you directly to the beach.

If you don't take it, the walk is a 1/2 hour through mosquito-infested, muddy jungle...

                                  It's rainy season, so you can expect rain starting around 3pm...

                                                                 The last boat leaves the island at 5:30pm...
                                                                                                     
                                                                Also the price covers the park entrance fee...

Ten dollars later we were on the boat, after a short reminder to wear our life jackets just in case, you know, something might, maybe, perhaps, come up.  Ojala!  Embrace spontaneity and change? Carpe diem?  Ironically, the travel bloggers who write that romantic shit all the time turn out to be incredibly boring, organized, anal people who actually research all their information ahead of time and have their entire travel schedule planned out already...complete with a post about it online in advance modestly bragging about how they love to "live in the moment."

Legoland Boat Dock 

The weather was overcast and the short trip had no surprises.  The most exciting part was the island's floating dock, made of interconnected, synthetic plastic cubes which decidedly clashed with the rest of the wooden, rustic-looking dock's ornaments.  I assume it was an economical alternative to building a fancy, all-wooden and thatch "authentic" structure.  It's fun to jump on.

A quick walk uphill brought us to the Red Frog Park/Resort entrance where the trucks wait for tourists.  The interior of the island is mosquito-infested and muddy, but the gravel trails are well-laid out and there are little pretty communities of exclusive luxury villas starting at around $95,000 for a "partial ownership" plot.  This is probably too much for the average backpacker to consider, but not to worry, there is Bocas Bound Hostel!!  According to most of the reviews, you will love staying at this affordable option, as long as you don't need running water or friendly service all the time.

Somewhere inside my cynical little heart I find the will to say this: Red Frog Beach is beautiful.  It is isolated and far away from the backpacker ghetto of Bocas Town, so the sand remains pristine and clean, and the extra effort required to get here keeps it from being overrun by tourists.  The clouds, strong wind and slight drizzle didn't stop us from enjoying the wild scenery.  In fact, the inclement weather added a certain drama to the waves crashing on the rocky outcropping that would have been absent on a perfectly still, sunny day.

The drizzle comes and goes intermittently while we lounge on the beach.  Take pictures.  We try laying down for a while; I am too wound up and do martial arts on the sand to amuse my friends.  Take pictures.  The drizzle increases so we amble up a strategically-constructed, scenic observation deck that's protected by the verdant jungle foliage.  Pictures.  More pictures.  Hey, we're alone here.  Smoke a little.  Laugh a lot.  Tomfoolery.  My Spanish friend has an easy smile. My Argentinian friend, she has the most wonderful laugh.  God, it is beautiful here.

Within an hour the drizzle has grown into the typical equatorial afternoon downpour.  We seek shelter at the nearby Palmar Tent Lodge bar & restaurant.  Not surprisingly, it's staffed and patronized by American surfer volunteers.  They procure us a round of Balboa beers.  Talk. "Where are you from?  Argentina?! Spain?!  United States.  Oh."  "You speak Spanish pretty well.  Why are you here?"  "I don't really know."  The usual backpacker talk.  More rain.  "Another round?"

Another hour passes.  Maybe more.  Maybe less.  The rain keeps time.

The rains clears up.  We walk around the Palmar Tent Lodge grounds.  The fancy tents and dorms set on the edge of the jungle go straight onto my "Someday, Somehow List."  It's a typical eco-friendly, self-sustainable "insert-hyphened-word" green community that's affordable by Western standards.  If you like to rough it in nature, but not really, really rough it, it's perfect.

The three of us wander further down the beach and unknowingly cross the invisible border between Red Frog Beach and Wizard Beach.  The only difference here is that all the other tourists are gone.  The sunbathers, swimmers and beach chairs are tiny dots in the distance.  After we walk around an outcropping of rocks and fallen driftwood, those final signs of civilization disappear from sight.  Most likely there are private, luxury villas hidden back in the jungle, but from the beach it appears we are alone.  Our conversation becomes less frequent as we let the sound of the wind and waves take over.

Eventually we stop to take a rest on some smooth driftwood.  Several pictures of the "Wish-You-Were-Here" variety are taken.  Look at this one.  Silence.  Laughing.  Silence again.  I'm not thinking about my home in San Jose, Costa Rica: the robberies, the crime, the scams, the gringo bullshit.  For once in Latin America - I can breath easy.  I am in good company.  Gracias, amigos.

We take the last boat at 5:30pm back to the madness of Bocas Town.

      

  

  




   

Hostel Ghettos Of Bocas Del Toro, Panama

When I searched "Bocas Del Toro," one particular phrase stuck in my mind: backpacker ghetto.  Backpacker ghettos are little towns or neighborhoods with a large amount of cheap hostels.  Many backpackers, usually of the dirty hippie variety, show up in these places and begin an ambitious campaign of never leaving.  They tell you they are hanging out to "find themselves," but it seems, suspiciously, that the only things they are finding are lots of cheap alcohol, easy drugs and hostel sex.  Their best friend is a sketchy local who speaks fluent, Reality TV Show English, has a blond, foreign girlfriend(s) and only apparent source of income is drug dealing.

This is an accurate description of Bocas Town, the principal town on Caracol Island where most of the budget lodging and population is located.  Bocas Town is small enough that the various expat owners of the hostels and bars in the area know each other.  They have more or less set a schedule of taking turns having parties and drink promos at their different establishments every night.  Naturally a small tourist town that parties every night attracts a lot of seedy backpacker elements, for example: me.

Fortunately Bocas Del Toro has a much more attractive side.  Although you are practically required to sleep in Bocas Town if you are on a backpacker budget, you can spend the entire day relaxing on the many quiet beaches located far away from the madness of the backpacker slums.  These majority of these beaches are on the far side of Bastimiento Island, which is a short boat ride from Caracol Island.

I didn't see the need to be seedy this time in Bocas Del Toro.  I was in the good company of my Spanish and Argentinian friends.  I felt comfortable knowing that by speaking Spanish with them I would be less likely to attract the attention of various drug dealers, hookers, touts and general assholes who prowl Latin American tourist towns preying on groups of gullible "Uhhh-Noo-haabloo-espanol" gringos.  Besides that they are just great fun to hang out with.

Mondo Taitu Reception

When we arrived in Bocas Town in the early afternoon, we were ready to collapse after our 8 hour trip all the way from San Jose, Costa Rica.  Mondo Taitu was the first hostel I thought of checking out.  It fits the backpacker ghetto mold: it's very cheap, a little dingy and rundown, has guests who never leave, and a bar with a staff that likes to party. This afternoon it looked pretty quiet and they had availability.  And at $11 a night with free breakfast, coffee and bikes included, how could we say no?

Mondo Taitu is a winner for price in Bocas Town.  There are plenty of other budget options on the main drag, Calle 3a, which is two blocks from the main docks where all the upscale hotels are.  It's easy enough to walk up and down the streets searching for availability; however, besides Mondo Taitu there are few other hostels located off the main drag which are worth checking out:

1. Casa Verde is a nice hostel at the southernmost end of the strip.  It's right on the water and is less of a party hostel since it's further away from downtown.  Had a good time here, but it may be different now since the management changed recently.

2.  Aqua Lounge is the dominant hostel/club in Bocas Town, which says a lot since it's not listed on HostelWorld.  It's essentially a big dock over the water on a small island across from Bocas Town.  It has the town's biggest parties, and they are fun as long as you aren't trying to sleep in the dorm room that shares a wall with their massive sound system.  Be aware that every time you go into Bocas Town, you have to take a water taxi.  Those four dollar boat round trips add up after a few days.
   

Not The Tourist Beaches

There were parties going on later that night.  We talked of going out, but were more excited about going to see the white beaches of Bastimiento Island in the morning.  Our immediate priority was rest, and we found it on a small beach near the hostel.  The beach matched Bocas Town: dumpy and in need of a cleanup.  A group of local kids laughed while playing volleyball on the dirty sand.  For the moment, it was fine for a quick late afternoon nap.



After napping on the beach, we gathered our strength for a stroll around the town.  The town was quiet expect for a small high school student protest that was going on in the streets.  The students were parading to get more support (read: money) for their English Language program.  This protest highlighted the extreme disparity typical in developing countries' tourist areas.  We were only a few blocks from the main strip, but all of the glamorous hotels and nice waterfront restaurants were nowhere to be seen.  Here the kids walked in streets lined with litter and lived in concrete block houses with no windows panes and a single bare light bulb to illuminate the interior.

"English: It's Like A Universal." Please, They Need Teachers

No worries.  Most tourists never walk past Calle 3a anyway.

We were starving and in need of some dinner.  No one had the motivation to cook that night.  We started checking the prices of restaurants to find something that fit our price range.  Many of the small, local "sodas" were already closed, so our search was restricted to most of the upscale restaurants right on the main docks.  They are all pretty much the same.  We settled on one place overlooking the water and ordered typical Central American/Panama meals: seafood/meat, rice, salad and fried plantain patacones.

Towards the end of dinner it started to drizzle.  In Central America a little drizzle is not to be taken lightly; it's often a prelude to a storm.  By the time we paid for dinner and walked the five blocks back to Mondo Taitu, the drizzle had turned into a torrential downpour.  We resolved to wait out the rain and go out later.  My Argentinian friend had brought a bottle of Italian Cinzano to sip on.  I played songs on my guitar to pass the time.

Two hours later we were still listening to the rain pound on the tin roof.  Mondo Taitu was empty that night expect for a drunk couple from New York who had ducked into the building to dry off from the downpour.  All the guests had either already gone out before the rain started or were asleep.  Our little Spanish, Argentinian and Gringo group decided to stay in so we could get up early to see the beaches of Bastimiento Island.  I continued to sing songs for my friends and the drunk New Yorkers as the rain pounded a beat outside.  
 

  

San Jose To Bocas Del Toro: Not All Who Cross The Costa Rica-Panama Border Are Equal

My Argentinian friend was visiting me in Costa Rica.  I took a few days off of work to travel with her to Bocas Del Toro, Panama.  With our limited time, Bocas looked like the best option for visiting a beach outside of Costa Rica.  My last visit there had been fucked by a credit card issue which had left me broke for 3 days and stuck in a hostel.  I was determined not to screw up this time, but disaster is a good friend of mine.

We arrived at the Caribe Station 45 minutes before the bus departed in order to buy a ticket to Sixaola, at the Costa Rica-Panama border.  Magic rumors exist that you can reserve advance tickets in your name for Costa Rican buses.  Perhaps this only applies to nationals.  Every time I call the bus companies they tell me "this is impossible."  My Costa Rica friends have told me that even though I speak Spanish, my gringo accent (and name) gives me away as a foreigner, and the buses won't reserve the tickets.  My Argentinian friend, with her obviously Argentinian accent, seemed to have the same problem.

It was lucky we arrived when we did.  By astounding coincidence, I ran into my Spanish friend, at the station, and he was on the same bus as us.  We became an odd team of three: a Spaniard, an Argentinian and an American.  This atypical tourist team would prove how conditional Latin border police can be with different nationalities.

San Jose to Sixoala is 6 hours by direct bus with one 20 minute stop.  It was a 6am bus, so we spent most of the trip sleeping.  Or rather we slept until we left the main highway at Limon.  After that the bus bounced up and down a dusty, rocky trail which followed the coastline to the border.  It was too humid, dusty and scenic to continue sleeping.

Another border town.  Ugh.  Walking from Sixoala's bus station to the border station requires forging a path through a puddle filled parking lot.  Once you clear the parking lot, there's a large ramp with stairs on the side leading up to an old railroad bridge crossing the River Sixaola.  The crossing isn't crowded, just don't step between the wooden boards.  It's a long fall into the river.

According to my Spanish friend, Sixaola is a better place to cross the Costa Rica-Panama border than Paso Canoas in the south.  He had to endure a nearly two hour wait there and mass bureaucratic confusion.  The border station at Sixoala had no more than a dozen people waiting in line.  The three of us got through customs and were taking pictures on the crumbling bridge in under 20 minutes.

Once we entered Panama, things got weird.

The border office is open from 8am until 5pm.  There's no need to worry about the hours, however; the line isn't very long.  In fact when we got there we didn't really see a line.  People were milling about in the hot sun in loose clusters outside of a long, low building with two offices: one for migration and one for customs.  The offices are at the top of a long ramp that goes down to the village of Guabito.  A few policeman halfheartedly kept the clusters in a semi-organized state of minor confusion.  It wasn't necessary.  The heat and humidity was too intense for people to do anything other than suffer quietly.

The three of us joined the masses to wait our turn.  On rare occasions people would step out of one of the two office doors in the building.  The police would indicate to whoever was closest to the door that they could enter.  I noticed one of the doors had more tourists (read: white people) gathered outside of it.  The "policemen" near this door had uniforms, but did not carry identification.  I smell Mafia.

Panama has a specific requirement for tourists entering the country, which I will hereafter refer to as a "scam."   When tourists enter Panama, they need to present proof that they are leaving the country again. This is theoretically to prevent foreigners from entering the country and then staying permanently.  In reality, this is a load of bullshit.  Panama border police know that most tourists are passing through briefly to visit spots like Bocas del Toro, Boquete, San Blas Islands, etc and returning to Costa Rica.  They don't have a specific return date so they only buy a one-way ticket.  Here is how the scam typically plays out.

Tourists enter the first office.  They present their passport and visa (if necessary.)  The migration official then asks:

"Are you returning to Costa Rica?"

"Well, yes, of course."

"Do you have proof.?"

"(Blank stare) ...What?  I'm going to Bocas del Toro for a few days then returning to Costa Rica."

"You need proof.  You can buy a return bus ticket to Puerto Viejo, Costa Rica outside the office."

"If I punch the police, you can grab his gun..."

Conveniently enough, there is a small stand at the bottom of the ramp that sells bus tickets back to Costa Rica.  When I say "tickets," I actually mean "one kind of ticket."  The ticket goes from Guabito to Hone Creek, Costa Rica (I believe) which is a completely useless village located 30 minutes by foot from Puerto Viejo.  It cost twenty-two dollars, but of course this price is subject to change.

Our traveling group had different contingency plans to avoid this scam:

1. The Spaniard had saved his purchased return ticket from his previous trip to Panama through Paso Canoas.

2. The Argentinian had her flight schedule which showed she was leaving Panama in order to get her flight out of San Jose, Costa Rica en route to Argentina the following week.

3. I had my Costa Rican Social Security card to prove I was a working employee who had to leave Panama in order to return to my job in Costa Rica. (Most Costa Rica nationals aren't asked to present proof of leaving Panama since the border police assumes they will be returning.)

These preparations don't mean anything.  Our entering the country was totally dependent on the whims of the border police.  Latin American border police hold power like the Wizard of OZ.  If the guy hadn't got laid last night, he could be grumpy and very well tell us all to fuck off and buy brand-new return tickets.

After some time sweating in the line/cluster, we were allowed to enter the first office to see if the Almighty Migration would let us enter Panama.  The Spaniard presented his Spanish passport to the serious official.  He looked at it for second then broke into a big smile:

"We have a champion here!"

Spain had just won soccer's EuroCup 2012 the day before.  The official called some of his coworkers over and they all began congratulating  for "his" victory.  His 3 month old return ticket was accepted and his passport was stamped, no questions asked.

This ridiculous ceremony had already happened with the police on the Costa Rican side.  He rolled his eyes.  He is a leftist who prefers to spend his time camping in the woods miles away from television and civilization.  To put it simply, he is a Spaniard who doesn't give a shit about soccer.  Regardless, shouts of, "We have a champion here!" would become a tired, running joke for him the duration of our trip.

Oddly enough, I am an American who was ready to chat about Andres Iniesta incredible contributions to the game.  I even visited one of the stadiums during my visit to Lviv, Ukraine the previous summer.  This doesn't mean shit to the border patrol; to them I am just another gringo on vacation.  I presented them with my passport and Costa Rica Social Security card, explaining that I am a resident, not a tourist.  They asked me where I worked, how long I had been in Costa Rica, where I was going and so on, por favor.  Somehow it worked...this time.

Now Argentina presented her passport and flight schedule papers.  The official didn't look satisfied:

"We need proof you are leaving Panama."

"Of course I'm leaving Panama.  My flight leaves San Jose, Costa Rica for Buenos Aires, Argentina.  How else can I take a flight from San Jose if I don't leave Panama??"

That sounds logical.  But international borders operate in a mysterious world where logic changes every 30 seconds.  Possibly the official felt like following protocol that particular day.  Possibly every third person had to be turned down that day.  Possibly he didn't like Argentinians.

She attempted to argue some more.  Our Spanish EuroCup "champion," tried to help her.  I kept my mouth shut.  None of it mattered.  The official sent us down the ramp to the small bus ticket stand.  She again tried to argue with the ticket vendor to no avail.  Chema and I offered to pay for part of the ticket if she would just buy it.  She was furious.  The fact that I had been through this before was the only thing keeping me from losing it too.

We returned to the migration line/cluster with a purchased bus ticket.  The contentious migration official stamped her this time.  We moved to customs, which was fairly easy except for the excessive checking of my guitar case for invisible drugs.  You are given useless yellow stamps in your passport which are supposed to cover local Guabito providence taxes.  There doesn't seem to be any order to how many you receive.  All that's certain is that you have to pay for each one, so the less the better.

Getting through migration and customs should be the worst part, but no one is that lucky.  Once you finish border formalities and descend the ramp, millions of hungry, screaming vultures swoop down on you.  These pirate taxis offer you a million great deals to take their car or truck shuttle to Almirante, the port to Bocas del Toro, for a "very good price (usually $20)."  You can choose to hang around and bargain with them and most likely get ripped-off.  Or you can ignore them and walk 100 meters past the ramp to a parking lot where a colorful local bus drives by about every 20 minutes.  For about a dollar this bus takes you to Chiangianola, where another cheap bus continues on to Almirante.

After years of crossing international borders, I've learned how to fight off the border vultures.  Fighting off patroling border police is a different matter.  Their guns don't worry me (taxi drivers have guns too.)  What worries me is their ability to throw you in jail over a nonexistent law violation that will only be refuted when a real American lawyer shows up.  By then it's too late.  Big Juan Pablo has already made you his new gringo bitch.

Scenic Changiablahblahblah

I am sure Panama's border police work in tandom with the taxi vultures.  We had cleared a path through the crowd of annoying taxi drivers and were almost to the bus parking lot when we heard a distinct shout.  One of the police was closing in on us and asked us if we had our return tickets out of Panama.  Despite the stamp in my passport, I did not actually have a return ticket.  I didn't expect my luck with the Social Security card to continue.


Fortunately, our Spanish champion did the talking.  After more Spanish soccer "We-have-a-champion-here" bullshit, the police let us go.  We jumped on a psychedelically-painted bus to Changiablahblahblah and paid the dollar and some change fare.

Taking two buses to Almirante that total less than three dollars is not only cheaper, it's slower.  I consider that an advantage, because the road has plenty of scenery that requires time to soak it all in.  Highway "" winds through a mountainous region that opens onto deep green valleys and occasional soaring views of the Caribbean Sea.  While we took pictures of the scenery, several of the taxi shuttles roared by our dumpy bus at a breakneck speed.  I doubt the tourists inside had time to snap photos, much less breath.

Changianola, a little town with a big name, was a brief break during our slow trip to Almirante.  There's no reason to hang out here unless you have a particular interest in Chiquita Banana, which is headquartered here.  One of the original Banana Republics.

The bus from Guabito dropped us off on a dirt driveway in front of the town's concrete block central market.  After getting off the bus, we walked straight inside the market.  On the other side is a large platform where the buses to Almirante stop.  There are also plenty of taxi vultures ready to offer more "very good deals" to Almirante as well.  Ignore them, buy a greasy Panamanian empanada and wait for the next bus, which stops in front of the empanada vendor.

Greasy Panama Empanadas

The scenery improves during the second half of the voyage.  Our odd trio of a Spaniard, an Argentinian and an American attracted considerable attention from the Panamanian passengers.  We chatted with them ("We have a champion here!) and received some advice about the Almirante stop.  There is no official stop; just tell the bus driver "Almirante/Bocas" and he will let you off.  More taxi vultures will be waiting to offer you a ride to the dock where boats depart for Bocas Del Toro (notice a theme here?)  They are scheming assholes because the docks are no more than 500 meters from the highway.  Additionally there are boat vultures that will bargain with you for a private ferry to Bocas Town.  The dock at the end of the road (go figure) has fixed schedules and prices at around seven dollars.  It also has an additional boat that departs late at 6:30pm.

We got off the bus at the appropriate random dusty area.  There were no signs, but a lone road snaked away from the highway towards the water.  The walk was short and was only delayed by random guys trying to sell us good deals on private ferries to Bocas Town.  After shaking them off, we arrived at the dock with official prices and departures every half hour.

The ferry company asks for name, identification and nationality.  We wrote this information down on an old notebook then waited for the next boat.  After 20 wet minutes on a big speedboat, we awkwardly docked in Bocas Town.  There were no taxi vultures waiting for us, finally.
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Taking The Ferry By The Banana Republic