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

  

           

Lviv From The Sky

"You have to be nice to me.  I let you stay for free."

"No problem, ma'am!  Its not as if I really slept in the bed...anyway."

She looked at me for a moment, gave me a sly smile and then turned back to the mirror to continue fixing her hair and makeup.  The early morning light was not kind to either of us.  We had drifted off to sleep for barely an hour before she had woken up and announced she had to go home.  I rolled away from the sun's bright rays and wished in vain that I was still dreaming.

Her long, wild blond hair, constant smile and looks were reason enough to like her, but what I will always remember is her confidence and "who-gives-a-shit" attitude.  When we talked of the different countries we had been with in our respective hostels, she spoke of her experiences in the same way that most men brag about their sexual conquests.  There was none of the shame or shy behavior that I had grown used to seeing with many "Eastern" European women.  Indeed when she finished fixing herself, she told me to get up, clean up and get out quick before the owner found out that I was getting free room and board.

It was meant to be...

I strolled the streets alone; reflective and in awe of this strange place that felt as familiar as any part of Western Europe yet still so foreign.  My Polish comrades were gone, and I was not the joking, silly guy that I normally am.  I was a ghost in the city: officially checked out of the hostel books 2 days ago but still drifting about unknown due to my good fortune with the staff.   My train to Romania leaves at 2:30am early tomorrow morning.  There's still a whole day to take in a more serious side of Lviv.

The old Lviv Univerisity's spacious grounds were already behind me.  The Stalin-era monuments and the yellow National Library were overwhelming in their sheer massive size.  It seemed much of the architecture was built on a large scale and Lviv -unlike many other European cities- felt like a place where I could breath.  I continued north on the long Svobodny Avenue and gradually approached the National Opera Theater where a large crowd had gathered.  A steady bass beat pounded from the crowd's center and ululating song floated over their heads.  I was expecting a wild gypsy band or some traditional Ukraine music group.

Nothing of the sort...  As I got closer, I distinguished the rhythmic, "Hey Yu Hey Yu Heeyyy" typical of an American Indian Pow-Wow.  In the middle of the onlookers a group of natives in full headdresses and chaps were pounding on drums and chanting away.  What the hell were they doing in the Ukraine?

Making money for sure.  Their CD's were for sale and the music they made was good.  American Indians would be far more 'exotic' and draw more people in this part of the world than back in the United States were they were from.  I lingered around to listen for a few minutes, but continued on toward to the Old Town to see the more authentically Ukrainian City Hall.  While walking on Rynok Square (Central Square) I experienced a brief flashback as I realized a small alleyway was were the wild Kriyyka Pub was located.  Had it really only been two days since I had meet those crazy Polish guys and finished all those bottles of delicious vodka there?  The door was locked and there was no sign nor board to indicate that this was the site of a trendy Communist-themed bar.  Another ghost in the city.

I entered the City Hall, paid the 5 Hrynia entry and walked down the hallway to the tower stairs.  I joined a line of people who were hobbling up the narrow, rickety wooden staircase that circled around the inside of the tower.  As I ascended, the stairwell became more narrow and vertical and I had to crouch to avoid hitting my head on the low stairs that twisted above me.  It became increasingly hotter, humid and cramped in the narrow tower and I had to stop each time exiting tourists bumped into me as they descended the staircase.  Ms. Retro Hostel Manager had said it had the best view of central Lviv, and I hoped she was right.

I can't argue.  All the events of the past two days came back to me in a rush once I saw Lviv stretch out below me.   I took a deep breath of fresh air and felt grateful that I was not trapped in the cramped tower anymore. I began to circumnavigate the tower slowly while taking pictures: north, east, south, west. 

 I took note of the Gothic and baroque architecture of the buildings and thought how different this was from my previous (stupid) assumptions of a Communist trash heap.  I listened for English, but only the 'shushing' sounds of Slavic languages reached my ears.  Despite being a principle attraction, there were no other Westerners to be found on the top of this scenic tower.  Next summer would be different when the giant Euro 2012 Championship would bring in tourists (and investment) from all parts of Europe.

On top of Lviv City Hall

I waved to a family of Ukrainians (Polish?) for a picture.  They looked bemused and gave me an "OK" as I leaned against the tower.  After they returned the camera, I remained prone and allowed the sun to melt me into a trance.  It was the first moment of relaxation I'd had since saying goodbye to Maria on the train from Krakow.  I try to avoid those nostalgic feelings that occur when one is in a scenic area, but flashbacks came.  The border crossing, the countryside, crazy Polacks, the cemetery and Ms. Retro Manager.  Ukraine is another part of my Slavic memories.   

A bump from a passing tourist broke my nostalgic trance and I blinked in the sun.  Had I fell asleep standing up?  Well, I had only slept about 2 hours.  Although my train to Romania was still 12 hours away, it felt much closer and a wave of sadness passed over me.  I was no longer a wandering ghost in the city.  I filmed the panoramic scenery for posterity then once again entered the dark, hot stairwell that twisted down to Rynok Square.

Lviv Through Polish Eyes: Last Night At Dodgy Metro Club. Boze!

Two hours...

The blond-haired, blue-eyed Ukraine doll who I had been singing to the previous night wasn't coming.  I had been nursing two import beers for the past 2 hours at an outdoor tent by the Fashion Club where we had meet the previous night.  She had sent one text stating that she was arriving "late."  Late does not mean "two hours."  I paid my tab and walked back to the hostel.

Things had taken a downward spiral since the Polacks and I had visited Lyiv Stadium.  The bus breaking down wasn't the problem; it had only added to the ridiculous absurdity of the day. The problem started after this incident.  While walking back we stopped at a small restaurant for some much needed hot food.  It occurred to me that I would need more cash for the night.   I walked across the street to a nearby ATM and tried my card:

"An error processed read is in your card.  We are sorry."

Many idealistic people love to say that they don't need money to be happy.  These people have never been in the middle of Ukraine when their bank account stops working.  I had already called my bank and they had said such a thing might happen, so I had hard cash wired to me as 'Plan B.'   Plan B was now Plan A and it would have to suffice for the next weeks' travels through Romania, Bulgaria, Serbia, Hungary and Slovakia.  All of these countries had 'red flags' for my bank, so I had to assume the worst.  'Cheap' Ukraine was know a little less affordable.

I would have been only slightly annoyed with the credit card malfunction, but it got worse when we returned to the hostel because the Dutch University Orchestra had taken over the place.  They were impossible to avoid and they still didn't give two shits about socializing with our Polish/American group.  Despite this Rado and I continued dogging the girls with such clever pick-up lines like, "What instrument do you play?" and "Do you speak Polish?"

They continued to ignore us in a polite, proper Western European style.  And in proper European style, they decided to engage each other in a strip-ping-pong game just to test their drunken limits.  My Polish comrades and I watched for a while but eventually left when we realized the girls weren't getting completely naked.  I had a date to go on anyway...

My date was an epic fail, and was further compounded by the fact that my credit card wasn't working properly.  Even if my blue-eyed, blond-haired Ukraine doll hadn't shown up, I still would've drank my ass off...under normal circumstances.  I had to restrict my spending and return to the hostel to drink.  I am a hostel manager, so naturally the Retro Hostel manager and I had plenty to talk about.  She recommended that I go to 'Metro Club' to have a good time. My Polish comrades were already there.  But just one thing...

"Be careful because many girls are 15 and 16 years old. They make you buy drinks."

Thanks for the warning.  According to this Facebook graph, Metro Club is very popular in Lviv (at least I think that's what it is.)   I don't have pictures from the club.  I can only refer you to the website: http://www.metroclub.com.ua/   

 I imagine the frequent amount of girl-related activities explain the popularity, for example the monthly Miss Facebook Metro Club Competition.  Go ahead and vote.  The winner gets an iPad; which is probably equal to a typical month's salary in the Ukraine.  Holy Crap!

Yes, many pretty girls who I hope aren't 15 and 16.  If you really want to file through all of the pictures from their past events, you will find one of the Retro Hostel manager and I talking together, as well as the Polacks and the annoying Dutch Orchestra Students.  Metro Club is fun in a dodgy, sketchy way, but we had more interesting things to talk about:

"So, we both working in hostel...what country do you think was the best to sleep with?"

"For me, it was France.  French girls at my hostel were the best.  And you?"

"I looove Italians men.  I have a very good storys."

She told me the stories.  I told her my stories.

We ended up back at the hostel talking into the early hours.  She surprised me with her knowledge of world history, and I surprised her with my knowledge of Slavic History.  We mused over the Czech/Slovak division, the intricacies of the Balkan War and the similarities in the various Slavic languages.  She expressed pride over the common 'Slavic Brotherhood' that exists regardless of whether one is Russian, Czech or Serbian.  At some point I asked her for details about Viktor Yushchenko and his political opponents who tried a poison assassination attempt that caused his face to get disfigured.

She was amused that an American would know about this Ukrainian political shit.  Personally, I think it is one of the more amazing facts that I have read about in recent worldwide political history.

By the way, she was a Slavic History major...

"Ayyyyyyyyyyyyy.....!!!!!"
"Boze moj!!"
"Boze moj!!"
"Ohhhh. Boze!!!!"

After continued talks of which country in our respective hostels had been the best in bed, eventually we decided to try it ourselves.  We had been drinking for a long time, and she invited me to sleep in her private room rather than sleeping on the lobby sofa.  These are difficult decisions.

I suppose it was done in a very professional (if blurry) way.  When all was finished, neither of us had won the competition.  She still believed that Italians were the best and I still believed that Frenchies were the best...

I don't have pictures to remember the craziness of that night at the hostel, and its probably for the best.  However my Polacks 'brats' did send a photo to me.  Here we are up to no good before going out.  I hope the next time we meet it will be even worse.  Stay 'debil' my brothers.

A whole lot of dupa at Retro Hostel Schevchenko

Lviv Through Polish Eyes: Euro 2012 Football Stadium

"Raleigh, do you like football?"

"I guess more than most Americans.  I was fortunate to be in Slovakia when they entered the World Cup for the first time in their history, and unfortunately it was because of you.  That own-goal was not good."

"Yes, we are bad.  Poland and Ukraine is only in Euro 2012 Championship because they are hosting."

 We spent almost a hour traveling by bus to the outskirts of Lviv to see the construction of the Arena Lviv.  Ukraine and Poland will play hosts to the UEFA Euro 2012 Championship and Lviv saw it fit to construct a new stadium for this epic soccer event.  The Euro 2012 will happen between June 8th and July 1st of this year. 

Soccer??  I realize most Americans have quit reading this so they can go watch a College Bowl game or find out which NFL teams have gained a playoff berth.  If you are one of those few Americans who follow soccer, or pretty much anyone not from the USA, keep reading...

Construction on the Arena Stadium began in November 2008 and continued despite much debate on whether the Ukraine even had the finances and infrastructure to host the Euro 2012.  The large stadium Adam, Rado, Matuesz and I saw being constructed before us would eventually have a capacity of 34,915 spectators.  At it's completion on October 2011 the construction costs totaled 211 Million Euro.  As impressive as these numbers are, it is actually the smallest of the eight stadiums that are hosting games.

Certainly my Polish comrades were quite happy to see this building that was contributing to the Euro 2012's - and Poland's - fame.  What I saw in August 2011 looked a long way off from the ambitious project that would include city tram connections, bus connections and an airport link and was meant to host one of the largest athletic events in Europe.  From the highway bus stop we had had to walk across a least a mile of open grassy farmland.  I assumed it would be plowed to make way for a connecting road to the stadium.

The construction workers seemed bemused that we were milling about the site.  They allowed us a little closer to the stadium and even obliged us a few touristy photos.  Rado and I considered jumping on a steamroller and seeing if we could ride it into the city.  We probably wouldn't get very far, but it would make getting across the farmland much easier.  We found the dirt road back to the highway and the bus stop.  There was a shopping center by the stop, so we went inside for a drink.  Coffee, beer or water...it was all the same.  It was a long way back to central Lviv.

 We got on the bus.  Adam fell asleep almost instantly.  Rado and I began talking of the amazing beauty of Ukraine girls again.  In particular we talked of one who we saw on the bus behind us.  She was brunette and could have won that year's award for "Highest Cheekbones."  I knew we were drawing attention to ourselves by speaking English quite loud.  Did anyone understand? 

Someone had been listening.  At the next stop, our beautiful Ukraine girl turned to us right before she got off the bus:

 "You know that some of us can understand you when you speak.  Its not polite."

I refuse to be fazed.

"Sorry.  We couldn't help talking about how beautiful you are.  I wish you would stay on the bus."

What passes for cheesy in the USA seems to work well elsewhere.  She smiled and laughed a little at my audacity.   I waved goodbye as the bus left her at her stop.  By that that time we had entered central Lviv.  The city became familiar again and the Polacks and I pointed out some of the buildings and places we had seen when we had left earlier that afternoon.  We were planning for the night and Lviv was ours again.  We started guessing how far we were from Retro Hostel.

As if to answer our question, the bus broke down.  Everyone off.