Saturday Feb. 3, 2007
Although I arrived at the large border crossing into Costa Rica early, the massive quantity of people no longer in their busses and cars that were forced to hike from one building to the next, and the next, and the next (are you getting the picture?) created my longest and most expensive crossing so far. And even with the help of two paid 'specialists' (one for each country) who had ways of short-cutting long lineups, I was still there for 3-1/2 hours! Perhaps my plan of early morning crossings needed to be reviewed? I was told by my assistants that being there at 6 AM might beat the rush (something I'd keep in mind for my upcoming crossing on this same highway into Panama).
I had only first ridden on the Panamerican highway in Nicaragua, and it wasn't anything special (as one would imagine a highway of this magnitude to be). As a matter of fact, the highways that joined it were often in better condition and had less traffic. What I didn't expect was that it would be even worse in Costa Rica, where long lines of traffic on this rough single lane highway progressed slowly through the mid-day heat of the countryside and speed limits varied between 40-80 kmph. Obviously, this is one of the main reasons why a motorcycle is a superior vehicle and I found myself in the passing lane more often than my own. Unfortunately, Costa Rica has something I haven't seen since the US - radar guns! I was nearly speechless when they stopped me doing 114 in a 60 zone - this was totally acceptable in these countries, where speed limits and yellow lines are merely suggestions. I don't think anybody here looks at the speed limit, you just flow with the traffic (OK, maybe I was a little more viscous than others).
Welcome to Costa Rica (which by the way means Rich Coast). After displaying my speed on the radar gun and collecting my paperwork the cop quickly wrote out a price of $30,000 Colones + 30% tax ($39,000 = approx. $80 US) on a small form. He then asked me a few questions and went back and rewrote the ticket on another form, but this time for only $20,000 Colones. He said I'd have to go back to the last city north (about 1hr back up the highway) and pay it at a bank or courthouse before I could get my license back. No problem, but I wouldn't be going back up that highway for a fake license. Then he really surprised me - he tore all three copies from his book, gave them to me along with my license said I said I could go, but slow down. I gave him $4000 Colones ($8 US) for his 'help' and exited as quickly as possible before he changed his mind again.
I arrived late that day in Turrucares, a small town about 30 minutes before the capital city of San Jose. It was here that I'd been looking forward to seeing my brother's, father-in-law and wife at their vacation home. In addition to offering me a comfortable place to stay, Darryl and Bernice also brought down a fresh assortment of maps and other supplies from home for my trek into South America in exchange for items that I've been carrying with me and needed to send back (or at this point - anywhere but on my bike). What a relief it was to stay with them in such a beautiful place. They took good care of me while I did some maintenance work on the bike and repacked my new and improved kit.
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I made a day trip into the Suzuki dealership in San Jose to see about that 'similar' replacement front wheel, but it wouldn't work, so my contact Randall very helpfully ordered one from the parts factory I'd been talking to in Colombia that I'd pickup on my way through (now I knew for sure I was going to Colombia). I also needed to change my rear tire and finally use the one I've been carrying around since Guatemala (which BTW was the highest mileage rear tire I've ever had: 16,141 kms on a V-rated Metzler Tourance). Luckily, while I was there my battery died, so after 5 years and 90,000 kms I replaced it with another Suzuki battery which would hopefully perform as well.
While at the dealership, I was invited to join a club ride (for large bikes, like mine) in two days. The group consisted of two clubs actually: Costa Rica & Panama, with probably some 40 bikes (of all types) in total. I was very impressed at how organized these riders were as we rode along the small highways through the busy little streets of each town along the way. One rider would always wait at a corner to make sure the entire group knew which way to go, and more than once a rider would actually stop traffic to make sure the group was able to proceed together (not unlike a funeral procession). A couple of guys spoke better English than I spoke Spanish, which definitely helped, and they all included me in their breakfast stop. And though the riding wasn't like back home, the brotherhood was and I met some great people. We managed to see some beautiful countryside as well as two volcanoes that I otherwise wouldn't have, and along the way I made a few new friends and contacts for Panama.
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Darryl's long-time house caretaker, Henry, is a helpful, friendly 'tico' (Costa Rican) who gets included in many of Darryl's extra-curricular activities. One of which was a trip to Chiro Island for a couple of days fishing in the Gulf of Nicoya. Along with Henry's uncle, Martin (owner/chef of a seafood restaurant), we piled into Darryl's 'Al Capone' rental car and headed for the island. Darryl and I were probably the only 'gringos' (a term usually reserved for US Americans) there and the four of us seemed to be the only tourists on the island - must've been the off season. We stayed in remote jungle lodge cabins that were accessed by foot-path instead of road, had a solar-powered reflector cooking dish and small kitchen with staff who made our meals (along with Martin's guidance of course). The cabins had metal roofs that echoed loudly in the night with the sound of falling tree parts from the lively jungle, but were surprisingly modern and clean.
On our way to go fishing one day we spotted a large iguana in a tree, which we later found out was killed by a boy with a stick for his family's dinner. The two days of boat fishing were only mildly successful, but my companions and I ended up having a great time regardless. Interestingly, all the boats here had a live tank for bait and fish that was created by two fiberglass dividers across the mid-section of the boat and then holes drilled into the floor to let water in. The funniest part of the trip occurred while waiting at the local pub on the water's edge for the ferry to take us back to the mainland. We were having a cold beer when I decided to try a little pork fat (chicarones) that we were eating as bait on a hook over the edge of the restaurant. The perch-sized fish reacted like piranha and soon everyone was catching something, laughing like kids and joking how we could have saved money by sitting in the bar and fishing instead of hiring a boat. As a side note; during the return car ride in the dark that night I was very surprised to see by the number of motorcyclists riding small bikes without taillights and some without any lights at all, most without anything reflective.
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