Five Shitty Things No One Tells You About Costa Rica

Some travel website thought my rants about Costa Rica were worth publishing, because I was writing something different from the usual happy, smiling green tree frogs, cute tree sloths, "Pura Vida" bullshit.  I submitted one blog post; they published it, paid me, and I spent the money on a bottle of Flor De Caña Rum to celebrate my success.  

Not surprisingly, the post comments were split 50/50 between: "You wrote a well-researched, informative AND funny article," and "You're an ignorant asshole, gringo."  I responded to the negative comments in Spanish.

Following this, the website requested a write-up to be titled, Things Nobody Ever Tells You About Costa Rica.  This is the result.  Even though this article is a series of true stories, it must have scared them off, since I haven't heard from them yet, but my irritated Tweets prompted them to finally publish it.

Maybe you won't be offended by my Five Reasons Costa Rica Sucks (the real title,) Five Shitty Things No One Tells You About Costa Rica, an even better title they chose.  After reading it again, I decided to edit it and add more information in order to shut down the haters I expected to get.

Too late.  It got published before the additional edits.

It wouldn't have mattered anyway.   People today have Internet ADHD and just have the patience to read 140 character Tweets before making a well-informed, "Y U SUK, LOLZ" opinion.  Judging by the posts, most readers got halfway through the first paragraph of the article before writing profanity-filled, misspelled, Wikipedia-researched comments.  They vehemently defended Costa Rica's rose-tinted tourist wonderland image, and most assumed I was an ignorant redneck who hadn't traveled anywhere outside of the "First World."  Apparently, clicking on my blog link with 2 years worth of travel posts was too much effort...

Enjoy the complete version, with further edits if I ever feel motivated.
   

Article For Matador Network:

Everyone told me I live in "The Happiest Country In The World."  So why after 2 years in Costa Rica am I paranoid, depressed, alcoholic and ready to shoot the next person who calls me, my friend?  My concerns started before my flight had even landed at the haphazard concrete and steel structure they call Juan Santamaria International Airport.

I thought I would have a nice, quiet flight with an empty seat next to me.  Not quite.  Right as the last boarding call was announced, a sweaty, extremely hairy kid sporting a tie-dyed shirt and Birkenstocks rushed into the plane and slumped down next to me.  He gave off an odor of marijuana-tainted apathy, and most likely planned to live in some organic commune in the middle of the jungle with a ragtag bunch of other idealistic hippies who hate "the system," but ironically made enough money from it to escape.  After we took off, he pulled out a tinfoil-wrapped package and asked me in a conspiratorial tone, "Do you eat brownies...Y'know, special ones?" 

Mmm, tasty.

Going through customs always makes me paranoid.  Doing it with weed-induced altitude sickness makes me want to lash out at first sight of the menacing, gun-toting customs officers who greet me at the airport.  This dirty hippie gave me a fitting introduction to the many problems I would encounter while living in paradise.

1. Naive Tourists: Tourists like my tie-dyed friend hear many anecdotes praising Costa Rica as the veritable utopia of Latin America, a part of the world known more for drug trafficking, violent crime, kidnapping, and poverty.  They assume that if the travel industry calls it "The Switzerland Of Central America," then surely it must function as efficiently and safely as that little quasi-neutral European country.  I stepped out of Juan Santamaria International Airport with a hopeful smile, thinking that at the terminal exit there might be an easily visible, well-marked bus stop with regular buses to the San Jose city center.

Nothing.  Smelling my gringo scent, I was greeted by 524,003 short men with comical English offering me "very good prices" to San Jose.

2. What Public Transportation?: The taxi drivers were telling me there was no bus, the station was far away, it was too late and other such fanciful lies.  Gracias a Dios, I speak Spanish.  I found an honest person who directed me to the bus stop, which is hidden on the opposite side of the large parking garage.  There was no schedule.  Buses come every "20 minutes or so."  Eventually a bus took me to the central Alajuela-San Jose Bus Station.  

Notice I said "Alajuela" Bus Station.  San Jose does not have one, or two or even three central bus stations.  At the time of this writing, there are about 25 different stations and stops to various locations around the country.  Efforts have been made to centralize the transportation, but the greedy bosses who own the individual bus companies are not ready to give up their control so easily.  This usually means having to take a taxi from the Alajuela-San Jose Bus Station to another station in order to transfer to that bus to beautiful sun-kissed Malpais.

3. Taxi Vultures: Taxis are a necessary evil for tourists.  You do not have to find one; they will find you.  You can have fun negotiating prices with illegal "pirate taxis" but, like pirates, they are bloodthirsty and will rape and pillage you.  If you prefer riding legally, find a taxi that is red and has a clearly marked, inverted yellow triangle with black call numbers.  In local slang, the taxi meter machine is called La Maria.  Be sure to tell the driver to turn it on.  He will smile and commend you on your knowledge of Costa Rican tiquisimos, and later complain to his colleagues that some gringo knew this code word.

Taxi drivers do not even know their way around the city, or they pretend not to know when a tourist gets in the vehicle.  One night I went with my lovely blond French friend to a club called Mas Tequila in the San Pedro neighborhood where I lived.  I told the driver the address in Spanish: "200 Meters Southeast of the Flag Rotunda, Boulevard Dent, Plaza Antares."  He drove around the Flag Rotunda to Boulevard Dent then...drove right past it on the same road we came from:

"Hey! We just drove past Mas Tequila."

"No, no, no. It is in Barrio Dent."

"What? Uh, no.  We just came from Barrio Dent. Turn around.  This shouldn't be more than 3000 Colones"

"You aren't from here.  You probably don't know."

"I've lived here for one year and I work in San Pedro neighborhood.  I eat lunch at Plaza Antares."

"What?  You don't believe me??"

He angrily pulled the vehicle over and stepped out.  He went back to the trunk, and reached in to get...something.  I doubt it was tequila.  At this point my blond French friend jumped out of the taxi and started apologizing to the driver.  Her sexy French-accented Spanish relaxed him for a moment.

Ooh la la.  I slammed a rojo (1000 Colones) on the passenger seat then walked away before it got complicated.

   

4. The "Green Season": Why take taxis?  Well, out of the 12 months of the year in Costa Rica, it's raining for approximately 15 of those months.  In the tourist industry, this period is called the "green season," because "never-ending-depressing-rainy-season" doesn't sell as well, and India already owns the legal copyright on "monsoon season."  Taxis are the best way to avoid getting soaked if you visit Costa Rica during any month that isn't named January.

On the plus side, hotel rates are cheaper during the "green season," which is great as you will be spending most of your vacation in them.

  

5. But There's No Military, People Are Peaceful?:  There's another good reason to take taxis.  It's safer than walking the streets after nightfall.  I come from St. Louis, an American city which twice won the dubious award for "Most Dangerous City In The USA," (We're #1!! Woo!!) and I have never been assaulted there.

Witnessed a murder scene in front of my apartment, yes.  Had my car broken into twice, yes.  Had a man offer to suck my dick for crack money - well, naturally.  But never physically assaulted.

During 2 years in happy Costa Rica, I was robbed twice: once with a knife, and another time with a gun.  The first time was expected, as it happened in San Jose, the urban capital city.  The second time was surprising, since it happened with another person on a road in the jungle on the outskirts of Puerto Viejo, a small, relaxed Caribbean coastal town - appropriately enough on my last night in Costa Rica.

This is nothing.  All my Costa Rican friends can outdo me with their own armed robbery stories.  They tell these stories as casually as the latest soccer scores between the big teams, Alajuelita and Saprissa.  One of my friends has been robbed 8 times in her brief 24 years.  This is why she buys the cheapest mobile phones; she expects them to disappear on a regular basis, like that left sock in the dryer.

Of course, nothing bad may happen to you in Costa Rica, especially if you take an all-inclusive, package tour where the worst thing that will happen is a wicked hangover due to an excess of poolside Piña Coladas.  For the rest of the normal backpackers without big expense accounts, good luck, and never-ending Pura Vida.

Manuel Antonio National Park: A Million Tourists, A Thousand Monkeys And Lots Of Fecal Matter

You, and 3 billion other tourists, will love Manuel Antonio National Park.  Recommended travel gear includes a helmet and elbow pads.  It makes pushing aside the weaker tourists much easier so that you can be the first to get a perfect, once-in-a-lifetime picture of those cute Capuchin monkeys playing with themselves in the palm trees.  Try filming the iguanas.  They move a lot slower, and are less likely to throw feces.

This picture was not taken in the national park.  Thanks to a new camera with a 21x zoom, it was taken from a comfortable sofa on the porch of Backpackers Manuel Antonio Hostel.  I was taking advantage of the hostel's awesome free pancake breakfast before I hopped on the local bus to the park entrance.

Backpackers Manuel Antonio sits across the street from the village's "centro,", which in small town Latin American dialect translates to "soccer field."  The rest of the community consists of one winding 10 mile road squeezed in on both sides by hotels, restaurants and stores selling authentic Costa Rica handicrafts made in China.  At one end of this road is the national park.  If your lodging is close enough to the entrance, you can walk there.  The hostel is not close enough.

Manuel Antonio Park's ticket vending stand is well hidden within the vast virgin jungle of tourist shops that will greet you when you get off the bus.  The easiest way to find it is to "join" one of the millions of tourist groups being lead like cattle by Costa Rican guides dressed in Indian Jones-style safari gear.  Once you are guided to the entrance, you can safely leave the group and no one will know the better.  After waiting in line, I paid the ten dollars for my ticket, and practically ran into a deer right before I entered the park.

This is a common sight in Manuel Antonio Park: animals with no fear of humans.  The park was established in 1972, so there have been plenty of years for wild animals to get accustomed to non-indigenous humans wandering through the jungle.  You will find many indigenous animals here, including: raccoons, sloths, agoutis, coatis and the endemic titis monkey. Yes, these monkeys are called 'titis!'  They are highly endangered; most likely because of suicide due to extreme embarrassment.

I entered the main entrance with a elderly, sweaty overweight tour group being lead by a guide who was joking in Spanish with the park rangers about his elderly, sweaty overweight tour group.  He switched to accented English and directed the group down the wide, rocky path.  I quickly outpaced the herd, but within 5 minutes I ran across another tour group wielding cameras and pointing into the foliage.

They were not titi monkeys, but white-faced capuchin monkeys.

Chain Smoking Monkey

I pushed my way through the crowd and held up my camera in anticipation.  Thanks to the Discovery Channel, we all know monkeys have a biological tendency to do funny things.  This behavior has been recorded in many scientific documentary films such as "The Hangover 2, which features one of these little, spidery, long-tailed primates I was filming at the moment.

Unfortunately, they weren't doing anything particularly funny, like throwing poop, masturbating or chain smoking cigarettes.  They appeared quite bored with all the tourists around.  I put down my camera and listened to the guide while the monkeys scratched themselves.  Stupid monkeys.

The monkeys were attracting more and more tourists.  It was time to move away.  Far away.  I kept walking and what I found was that it was impossible to get away from crowds at the park.  Manuel Antonio Park, at 7,656 square miles (19,83 sq km,) is Costa Rica's smallest park, but one of its most famous, receiving around 150,000 tourists per year.  At only 82 miles from San Jose, it's also an easily accessible national park, and will become even more so since a major interstate highway has been recently built to connect San Jose with a popular nearby prostitution-themed funpark called Jaco.

At least I never had to worry about finding someone to take my picture at the scenic points.

This view requires an uphill climb on a series of large, man-made concrete slabs.  I suppose the concrete slabs are Costa Rica's way to avoid any permanent change to the natural environment, yet still make much of the park accessible when the constant rain turns many of the paths into fudge brownie rivers.  In addition to the constant joy of equatorial rainstorms, it's important to note when high and low tide as it makes certain areas of the park cease to exist for several hours.

Some kind of bird

Manuel Antonio has a extensive network of interesting trails well suited for travelers whose closets are primarily filled with color-coordinated, REI brand moisture-wicking gear and matching all-terrain Teva sandals.  For tourists who don't consider sweating profusely to be one of their primary vacation activities, there are the beaches.  Manuel Antonio, South Espadilla, Gemela and Puerto Escondio are the park's 4 locations where you can work on that perfect sunburn.

At this particular moment, isolated Gemela and Puerto Escondio were not technically beaches, due to the rising tide.  I resigned myself to resting on the park's big namesake beach.  Even with the grey threatening rain clouds, it was a madhouse.  I avoided colliding with several hyperactive kids, flying beach balls and banana-thonged Eurotourists while looking for a quiet place to nap that wouldn't be underwater in the next hour.

I found a spot near the treeline, and stupidly realized I had forgotten to bring alcohol.  I went with my second option, which is practicing mixed martial arts.  In Latin America this the only practical form of self-defense next to carrying a firearm.  I was flipping and kicking around when I noticed a class of extremely inexperienced yoga students pointing at me.

I've practiced MMA for 2 years in Costa Rica.  When I practice in public, I frequently meet hippie yoga students who confuse MMA training with some kind of new age, karma-inducing advanced yoga.  I quickly point out that my goal is to effectively beat the shit out of people, and not achieve inner peace.  They (peacefully) lecture me on my lack of karma, then meditate their way back to whatever environmentally friendly, granola-fed, self-righteously sustainable commune they're staying at.

Anyway, I figured this group would be good entertainment.  The perky, lithe yoga instructor, who was clearly born without basic anatomical features like bones, was demonstrating how easy it was to use her arms as a substitute for her legs.  The amateur, karma-seeking students would let out an enthusiastic "OHM" and put their arms on the ground while throwing their legs in the air.

Not the entrance or exit

Unfortunately, they were used to using arms for normal hippie things, such as eating hummus, and would fall on the ground, often with limbs protruding at unusual angles.  The instructor gave them encouraging pats on the back.  She preferred her left foot.

After some time the students' "OHMs" were sounding suspiciously like groans.  The yoga instructor eventually decided that, yes, feet are perfectly fine for walking.  She led the students in a round of applause, which was only hindered by the fact that some of the students could not actually find their hands.

My entertainment was gone, so I moved to South Espadilla on the other side of the peninsula.  The tide was stronger on this side so the beach was empty.  A lone parasailer sailed across the grey, cloudy sky.  I watched him hovering majestically in the air until I noticed that, sadly, there was no lightening.  I recognized the large rocky islands I had seen on all the websites and fulfilled my tourist duties by snapping 5 billion unforgettable pictures.  Surprisingly, Lonely Planet has not responded to my profanity-filled emails.  Perhaps I should apply a different Instagram filter.

  
There is a different exit near this beach.  The actual exit strangely enough lead to a small river that, due to the high tide, appeared impassable.  Several men sat with rowboats advertising passage across the river for 500 Colones.  Many of the tourists were taking these boats.  Wading across the river was possible, and many people were attempting it, however a big official sign stood next to the river:

"BEWARE: THERE ARE CROCODILES AND FECAL MATTER IN THE WATER."

Several questions come up: Why would Costa Rica's most famous national park exit to a dangerous, impassable, crocodile and shit-filled river?  Did this river harbor a particular species of crocodile that suffers from severe bowel issues?  Do the crocodiles only attack fat tourists?  Were the crocodiles attacking tourists with the fecal matter?  If so, could they attack the yoga students?

I naturally assume everything in this part of the world is a scam.  Two Costa Ricans guys stood next to me looking skeptical too.  We talked momentarily in Spanish; they had visited before and remembered an easier way.  To the far left, hidden among the palm trees, were some muddy steps that lead over a small hill that extended into the ocean.  On the other side was much shallower water, which appeared free of fecal-throwing crocodiles.

The three of us removed our shoes and gingerly waded across the river.  After a tense minute I reached the opposite shore.  I turned around and noticed the Costa Ricans had disappeared...

Just kidding.  We laughed at the silly scheming boatmen and celebrated with a more honest businessman who was selling homemade ice cream by the bus stop.  As expected, the rain started picking up while I waited for the bus with the other 4.26 million tourists.

The internet connection was good in the hostel, so I spent the rainy evening on my computer looking at pictures of titis.                  
                  

  

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

  

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.
.

Taking The Ferry By The Banana Republic

  

           

Guayabo National Monument: Pretty Much The Only Ancient Ruin In Costa Rica

Costa Rica has plenty of outdoor activities to keep your average wannabe ecotourist happy forever.  Ziplining, trekking, climbing volcanoes and feeding monkeys are all the standard package trip to this tropical country.  But after living there for some time, I noticed something was missing.  I've drank on the San Andreas Mayan Pyramids in El Salvador, sunburned myself on the massive Teotihuacan Pyramid in Mexico and offended God in historical churches in Nicaragua.  And no hostel chat in Latin America is complete without some new-age douchebag mentioning the stunning Aztec city of Macchu Picchu in Peru...and how he tripped balls on ayahuasca there.

Where are all the ancient ruins in Costa Rica?

Ancient Guayabo Zipline Facility

I fretted over this for awhile, then got distracted for the next few months by my 50+ hour work week.  I forgot all about it until Barbara, a coworker of mine, announced she was leaving Costa Rica in 2 weeks and invited me to see Guayabo National Monument:

"What's a Guayabo? A fruit?"

"It's just some old stones in Turrialba.  I don't really know how great it's gonna be.  We can still go out in Turrialba that night or find time for kayaking on the river."

"Sounds good.  My roommate's from Turrialba.  She could show us around."

Some Rocks. It Gets Better.

Let's be brutally honest.  If you're a backpacker who's on a Latin America tour and you've already seen Macchu Picchu, Teotihuacan or Copan, then seeing Guayabo is as breathtaking as watching "The Hangover 3" after having just seen the first two.  Really, that's the best they could do?

Regardless, I never say no to a roadtrip.  Especially with Barbara, who is from Slovakia.  This is a country which most people can't locate on a map, but by wild coincidence I happened to live there for 2 years.  As with all Slovak women, she is tall and stunningly beautiful.  Although she was definitely in Costa Rica for 'exotic' Latin men, we still hung out since I knew how to curse in Slovak and "drink like a Slovak."  I looked up 'Guayabo National Monument' and discovered it really is the only ancient archaeological site in Costa Rica.  Well, I finally found some history.

One of Barbara's friends (also Slovak) came with us.  We caught a late bus on Saturday from San Jose to Turrialba.  It was a long 2 hours in drizzling rain through the rolling Cartagao mountains.  The Slovak girls rambled on in Slovak while drinking rum and ginger out of plastic bottles.  I eventually dozed off when I realized I had completely forgotten what little Slovak I had learned...

By good fortune, I had contacted a Couchsurfer, Tete, from Turrialba who agreed to help us with our trip to Guayabo National Monument.  She wasn't able to give us a place to stay that night, but she offered to drive us and be our guide at Guayabo.  When we arrived she took us in her car to various lodgings where we could stay.  We eventually settled on the Intercontinental; for a nice room with 3 beds in the city center it came out to less than 15 dollars per person.

Katka declared she was tired, leaving Barbara and I to experience the nightlife of small-town Turrialba.  My roommate was in town for the weekend, so I contacted her.  She was at a wedding party in Club Nazca, a short 15 minute walk from the Intercontinental.  This didn't seem like a problem until we started asking people about the location:

"Oh no no. That walk is too dangerous at night.  Take a taxi there."

Some Of The Local Men

Turrialba is town of less than 30,000 people.  The thought of this small town being 'dangerous' seemed absurd to me, an American, and Barbara, a European.  Unfortunately this is the reality of living in Latin America; even the smallest villages are still dangerous, especially for obviously 'gringo' tourists who draw attention.  Barbara, being a tall, white exotic European woman, was already getting annoyed with all the catcalls she was getting from the local men on the streets:

"Hey, you speaky English?" "I loves you!!!" "You are sooo beautiful."

It was a short night.

Tete picked us around 9am the next morning and we drove the half hour up a rocky, rutted trail to the park entrance.  Since I was a passenger, I wasn't observing our route, and Costa Rica directions are always tricky.   Based on the maps I've seen, both Route 415 and Route 230 from Turrialba will take you there.  There is a bus that leaves from Turrialba twice daily that goes to the entrance; take the morning one.  Expect rain, expect rain and...expect rain.  Also foreigners, expect to pay more than nationals.  Another reality of the 3rd world.  Tete and her Costa Rica friend paid 600c ($1.20) while us foreigners paid 3000c ($6.00.)

A price increase of 5 times is justified...because we know all English teachers are very wealthy.

No one can really explain the existence of Guayabo National Park.  This is perhaps because, out of the 217 hectares that constitute the park, just 20 hectares are designated as an archaeological site, and only a small portion of that has been excavated.  Delayed development of the park has also contributed to a lack of information.

The archaeological site was first discovered by accident in the mid-1800s by rich coffee barons looking for plots of land to grow their cash crop for export, and to continue feeding their caffeine addiction.  At this time, the coffee industry was the popular kid in Costa Rica and ran around poking all the other little industries with sticks until they cried.  When news of the archaeological site discovery broke, a few nerdy archaeologists got really excited and asked to excavate it.  The coffee barons poked them with sticks until they shut up: "Who cares about this land?  How the hell can you grow profitable coffee beans with all these stones in the ground?"

Remember, this was before the ecotourism industry existed.

Guayabo was pretty much ignored for the next 100 years.  Finally in 1968 one of the less nerdy archaeologists, Carlos Aguilar AKA "Carlos The Eagle," convinced the Costa Rican government to set up a permanent excavation program on the site:

"Trust me, please.  Archaeology is really cool.  Also the gringos will pay us big money to look at these old rocks.  Seriously."

In 1973, the government designated Guayabo as a national monument.  "The Eagle" and his fellow archaeologists finally got to play in the dirt without worrying about rich, over-caffeinated coffee barons poking them with sticks.  Here's what they discovered.  (Or rather what I translated from Spanish Wikipedia.)

Guayabo was a pre-Columbian society that was occupied from sometime between 1000 B.C. to 1400 A.D.  Much like today, it was governed by a quasi political-religious head known as a cacique, which is also the name for Costa Rica's national firewater.  There are many theories on why the society was abandoned including: disease, war and internal conflict.  Surprisingly enough, European Spain's religious, ass-kicking, kill-all-the-brown-people campaign had nothing to do with it, since the site was abandoned at least 100 years before invasion.  The site mainly consists of a series of connected aqueducts, aqueduct locks, large basins where the water was collected and several large streets which aided with water drainage.  In other words, you are paying 6 dollars to look at an ancient sewer system; septic tanks included.

A Cute Crocodile Petroglyph

 Guayabo has much more besides extensive historical plumbing.  There are several monoliths, tombs and stone petroglyphs carved with jaguars, birds and two-tailed crocodiles.  The Costa Rica Board of Tourism wanted to install additional petroglyphs in the park carved with cute, wide-eyed green tree frogs and smiling tree sloths, but the Archaeological Society told them, no, there's already enough fucking cute tree frogs and tree sloths in your current tourism campaign, carapiche mae.

All of these structures are centered around a group of large stone mounds.  They have weathered the years quite well.  I had hoped there was a more dramatic English translation of monticulo, such as "Fucking Stunning Pyramid" or "Giant Damn Epic Mausoleum," but no, they are just mounds.  The other translations (hump and hummock) are even worse.

Guayabo National Monument is certainly not the largest, most breathtaking ancient ruin in Latin America.  Not even in Central America.  It doesn't matter.  After seeing all of the mounds, aqueducts and stones, Barbara, Tete, I and the rest of our friends climbed to the top of the park's scenic overlook.  When we looked down at the site and realized we could see clear to Columbia, we knew we were viewing the most impressive sewer system ever.  Wow.

Costa Rica Before Ecotourism: Why Is Everyone So White Here?

This was supposed to be about Guayabo National Monument, but it turned into a highly subjective, poorly researched lesson on Costa Rican history.

A Primitive Diquis Lawn Ornament

Where are all the Mayan and Aztec ruins in Costa Rica?  Other than the occasional giant, stone Diquis sphere being used as an oversized lawn ornament, the indigenous presence is decidedly absent here.  Somewhere beyond all the zip-lining, scuba-diving, turtle-watching and other hyphenated, modern ecotourism (hyphenated?) activities, there has to be some ancient history in this gringo-manufactured paradise.

Modern Costa Rica has everything today because of what it didn't have before.  Tropical rainforests, pristine beaches, smoldering volcanoes, untouched wildlife: these exist in every Latin American country.  What set Costa Rica apart from the beginning was a lack of gold, silver and other precious minerals.  These formed the economic foundation of the giant Aztec, Maya and Olmec indigenous civilizations that developed elsewhere in the region.  Those guys stayed away from the poor, gold-deprived lands of present-day Costa Rica.

How did this affect modern Costa Rica?  As rapper Notorious B.I.G. once famously stated: "More money, More problems."  These precious minerals also attracted Spanish European colonists, AKA conquistadors.  They weren't very happy to see "uncivilized" heathen, brown people possessing precious gold and silver which should -according to their Catholic God- rightfully be theirs.

The Spaniards went on a divine campaign to kick some serious indigenous ass in order to get their hands on the Bling-Bling.  Hundreds of years of Spanish ass-kicking (along with the help of imported diseases) eventually resulted in a very hierarchical, military colonial system throughout most of Latin America.  Spanish Europeans were on top, mixed mestizos were in the middle and (as always) the brown people stayed on the bottom.  Not surprisingly, there was some resentment.

Costa Rica came out pretty lucky...historically speaking.

Costa Rica Had No Bling-Bling

Of course, pre-Costa Rica had some brown people, but what few remained were almost completely destroyed by Spanish military and diseases.  There weren't indigenous people left to form hierarchies.  Perhaps you've noticed Costa Ricans are pretty "white?"  This lack of gold, plus the challenging geography of the Central and Talamanca Mountain ranges, resulted in Spain giving the area low-priority status on its Bling-Bling treasure hunt.

A few of the more laidback, peaceful Spaniards found they enjoyed Costa Rica's fertile Central Valley and its quiet beaches.  They decided to take a little siesta while their gold-hungry, bloodthirsty kin continued indigenous ass-kicking annihilation throughout Latin America.  Fighting?  Military Campaigns?  Mae, that's so much work... These relaxed dudes set up small, family farms and pretty much stayed out of each others' business for the next couple hundred years.

Pura Vida.  This laidback, friendly farmer's attitude persists to this day in Costa Rica.  It explains why the country was quite happy to abolish its military in 1948 and continue chilling out on the beach.  Meanwhile other Latin American countries' histories of hierarchical, military colonial rule resulted in long festering resentment and a general, small child's "It's-Not-Fair-Wah-Wah" crybaby attitude.

Ironically, people attempted to solve this problem by continuing their Spanish oppressor's tradition of colonial-style, ass-kicking by means of a series of military juntas and coup d'etats that changed with the frequency of a woman's mood in the worst stages of PMS.  Costa Rica became attractive to American and European tourists since they didn't have to worry about their tranquil, all-inclusive beach resort being suddenly turned into a military base for another egotistical, black sunglasses-wearing dictator waving around a copy of "The Communist Manifesto."

I am simplifying this a little.  Research names like Braulio Carrillo and Jose Figueres Ferrer for more thorough information.

Anyway, Costa Rica's peaceful history has made it today's standard for ecotourism.  Ziplines, trekking, turtle-watching and other environmental-friendly, artificially created activities form the backbone of the tourist industry.  But its lack of minerals and the indigenous people that originally depended on it means it is one of the few Latin American countries that lack spectacular ancient ruins such as Teotihuacan, Copan and Macchu Picchu.

There is one ancient ruin in Costa Rica: Guayabo National Monument.  I was going to write about it here, but I have already gotten way too far off track.  In true Costa Rica "Pura Vida," fashion: it can wait until tomorrow.

Guayabo National Monument