Fortuna, Costa Rica

”It is time to get up. The time is five o'clock.” I reached over and grabbed my cell phone and reset the alarm for 5:30. Another restless night's sleep, punctuated by half hour intervals of pacing and gnoshing since I retired four hours previously. Half an hour later my cell phone provoked me again. I made a pot of coffee and packed some clothes in my day pack along with my notebook and netbook computer. A little after six I headed out the door and walked to Walter's real estate office. I gave him my notebook computer and my external drives for safekeeping and took my digital SLR camera. We walked over to Bocas Marine tours and bought tickets for the water taxi to Almirante. The six thirty boat was full. I ordered eggs and a couple of cups of coffee and nourished myself while waiting for the seven o'clock departure. A few minutes before seven we boarded the boat, taking the rear most of the six bench seats. The closer to the bow, the more ass pounding one gets and I had no great desire to have my ass pounded this morning. Four girls from Texas took the seat ahead of us and we discussed the weather in Texas. One was attending A&M, poor thing and had left weather even more inhospitable than the 113 degrees Dallas was experiencing.

Twenty five minutes later we were in Almirante with the usual hustle, “Where are you going my friend?” “I thought I'd pop by Lago Arenal and that lovely German bakery on the east shore, take in the hanging bridges, stop by the Observatory Lodge at the base of the Volcano then go for a jungle walk the next day. How about you?” “My friend are you going to Puerto Viejo?” No point in talking to this moron. I invited the Texas girls to ride along with us to Chaginoula but the opted for public transport as our SUV wasn't really large enough for all of us in comfort. Walter and I walked a couple of hundred feet to the parking lot where Chester's SUV is kept safe and secure for $40 a month, got the car and headed out to Changuinola. Cool morning, low hanging clouds enveloped the base of the hills. With the windows down it verged on chilly. Thirty five minutes later we passed through town and stopped at a road side cafe with which Walter was familiar. The owner/operators were from Boquette and served coffee from the province of Chiriqui, home of the most expensive coffee in the world that hasn't passed through the gastrointestenal tract of a wild feline. (Look up “civet cat coffee”, yeah, no shit.) We had some veal sausages and tortillas. In Panama a tortilla is a three inch by 3/8” deep fried ground corn pastry. We also ordered Omadilla a deep fried white flour pastry. The tab came to $8, I slipped a tenner under the plate and we headed out.

A short while later I was dropped off at the bridge which connects Changuinola, Panama to Sixaola, Costa Rica. I stopped by the pre-immigration office, paid my $3 exit tax, then when to immigration and got my exit stamp. The walk across the bridge was a mundane experience. Twenty one months prior it seemed a strange and unusual thing to walk across an ill kept wooden bridge between two countries. Now it seemed more natural than trying to buy cauliflower.

Arriving at the Costa Rican side, I stopped by immigration. I was handed a form, filled it out and submitted it with my passport and was asked for my airline ticket out of the country. I was forging one the other day, modifying a heavily marked up Travelocity html email confirmation that nearly put open office into a death spin. I told the woman that I lived in Bocas and that I was going to buy a boat ticket from Puerto Viejo to Bocas del Toro once I got to Puerto Viejo. She was having none of it. So I walked down the road to the pharmacy (first building on the left) and bought a bus ticket. I had a choice, I could buy a ticket from San Jose to Changuinola or not. No other options were available. For $12.80 I bought one, returned to immigration, presented the ticket and passport, the latter was quickly stamped and returned to me.

My plan was to take a shuttle from Puerto Viejo to Fortuna. The price of a taxi from Sixaola to Puerto Viejo was ostensibly 20,000 colones, about $10. The taxi driver offered to take me to Puerto Viejo for $35. I told him I would look for a collectivo, he denied that they existed. I returned to the pharmacy and attempted to buy a bus ticket to Fortuna, but was informed that the only tickets they sold were from San Jose to Sixaola. “Yo necessito comprar billete pora bus hasta Fortuna. Donde tengo?” She directed me across the street. The chino across the street didn't sell bus tickets but pointed me next door. I entered the hardware store, but they were baffled too and suggested the bus around the corner. If you ever find your self in the same situation it's the first road on the right after you cross the bridge.

I approached the ticket counter. My choice of destinations was Limon or San Jose, Puerto Viejo was not an option. San Jose $12, clock back an hour bus leaves at 10.

Impelled by an imperious necessity, a compelling nervous expression of my bowels, for a near immediate riddance of something found suddenly offensive, the tacos I consumed last night, prepared at home by yours truly with plenty of hot sauce, I sought appropriate accommodations for the requisite task. Spying a bano publico (public bathroom) I walked over to the soda (typical food outdoor cafe) and made inquiries. The cost was 95 colones, I proffered a quarter and the woman provided me with enough toilet paper to cover the walls of the room. There was no sign, but I put the used paper in the bin next to the toilet. The sink outside had a one liter water bottle with a strong concentration of lysol for washing one's hands. No towels,of course.

As I walked out I was greeted by Skip, the floating house builder, on his way to San Jose to close on a sale. “Skip, I never got your articles of incorporation, your corporation is not listed on the Panamanian online registry, I never got a copy of your approved concession. Did you finish making the modifications to my house that we discussed?” “Here, Jim, want a drink?” I looked at the canned rum and coke and declined. Shortly thereafter a bus pulled in a people started to board. I checked the time then the destination on the front of the Mepe bus. We boarded, I got current on today's blog entry, opened the window for fresh air and we departed at ten exactly.

11:45 Pulled into station my freakin' neck. What the hell happened? I had fallen asleep and head had flopped over to the right, straining my neck muscles. A dutch girl took a seat next me. I put my daypack on my lap. “Que este nombre aqui?” “Cuhuita.” Shit, still on the Caribbean. Back to nodding off and I have to exhausted to sleep on a bus.

12;45 We pulled into a terminal, a sweater lies on the vacant seat behind me. I grabbed and ran over to the steel gates and holding the sweater between the bars yelled, “Chica Nederlander, su ropa!” n She turned around, came over to me and said, “Thanks, can you put it back on the seat, oh, I'll take it!” We were at a cafeteria, this was just a stop. I entered and looked at the food and deemed none of it worthy of consumption and bought some junk, an tajaditas de platanc on chicarron del rancho, an ice cream, and a 1750 ml water. Tres mill tre ciente. Three thousand three hundred colones? I have here 7 dollars and got 200 colones back. Was this a screw job or has the dollar weakened that much? Nice homework, peckerhead.

The fried plantains were thin and extra crispy, the pork rinds very scarce. This was truly a bag of evil stuff.

3:30 Finally cold and wet pulled into the terminal in San Jose. A taxi driver informed me that the bus to Fortuna left from another terminal. This much I already knew. The fact that there were no more today was news to me. He offered to drive me for 75,000 colones. Hell, that gets me there in three hours, what else am I going to do, rent a hotel room in San Jose? Inside the terminal was an internet cafe. Some computer from the archives of hell booted for ten minutes, then took another five minutes to bring up an instance of Chrome. I fired off an email to my friends that I am to meet in Fortuna, bought some more poison and headed out front. The taxi driver gladly accepted the chocolate covered ice cream bar I gave him. “Su llama”. “I am George.” “Jorge mi nombre Jaime, but you can all me Jim.” Off to his little Hundai, through the rain and mist. Onward through the fog!

I tried to find some comfort in the back seat in a semi-recumbent position but found little. Finally I asked the driver to stop, got into the front seat and put it in full recline and achieved some rest. When we arrived in Fortuna, he had no idea where the Aparthotel at which I was staying was located. I quickly gathered my bearings and gave him directions. As we pulled into the drive I was warmly greeted by Ruth and Rudy. I returned to the taxi to pay my fare and on returning saw no evidence of my possession. Upon inquiry as to their whereabouts, Ruth, pointed. I ascended the circular stairs to find shelves with neatly folded clothes, none of them mine. With a quizzical look on my face she indicated that she had been pointing to room seven, my former quarters. I guess I should have known that the "through the walls" was implicit in her gesture.

Rudy invited me to go fishing on Saturday. I hadn't intended to stay that long. I caught a cab to Las Lagos, where Richard and Maggie are staying. A six kilometer fare came to 4,800 colones, almost $10 and about five times what I would pay for a similar trip in Panama.

We pulled into the entrance and I entered the lobby inquiring for directions to the bar, our agreed upon meeting location. I was informed that it was dark and not very straight forward and a man was summoned to guide me there. I had stayed at this lovely resort sixteen years earlier with my two boys, then five and seven. We looked at the bar, the poolside bar, the bar in the restaurant, called their room, made another pass of same and finally got a shuttle to their room where I talked with Maggie's son Alex, whom I hadn't seen in 15 years, now a fine strapping young man and met Cole, a joint effort, now about six. Oh well, there is always tomorrow.

I gave up and took a taxi back stopping at Garrapata for dinner. In my old blog I had a pretty funny story about that but in never made it from Wordpress to blogspot. Oh well. The owner recognized me and we engaged in friendly banter. Tilipia was served ten different ways, none of the descriptions being helpful. "Tilipia Ballerina". Garrapata informed me that this was a humorous menu. Some clue as to the sauces would have been more appreciated. I ordered Tilipia Marisco which was served with a cream and white wine sauce with shrimp a faux scallops, faux crab and faux calimari then walked back to my lodgings.