When in Costa Rica, take the bus
Dan Kristie, Dailylocal.com
On a bus traveling through the
mountains of Oaxaca, Mexico, I
sat next to a young, Los Angeles
MBA. He told me, "If you think
this is beautiful, you should
check out Costa Rica."
That was four years ago. Ever
since, I've listened closely
each time someone talked about
the country. I heard tales of
active volcanoes, stunning
beaches and thick, parrot-filled
rainforests. Sounded wonderful.
So when the newspaper finally
gave me a vacation, I decided
Costa Rica was where I wanted to
go. I invited two friends —
resort types. When they agreed
to go on my mountain-climbing,
jungle-trekking adventure, I was
shocked.
We spent two weeks planning. Not
wanting to be a dictator, I made
some concessions. Yes, we can
spend a few days at the touristy
beach town so you guys can take
surf lessons. Yes, we can rent a
car so you don't have to deal
with the (glorious) chaos of
public buses.
That last concession was a
mistake. Two hours after we
landed, the only one of us who
could drive stick (we'll call
him Gary) was giving us a heart
attack by gunning our Daihatsu
Terios through narrow, potholed
mountain roads.
"Wow," he said, smiling. "This
is some splendor."
We bumped our way through clouds
and secondary rainforests,
watching hawks glide across the
valleys below. The splendor was
so abundant that Gary drove the
car over a foot-deep pothole — a
thud we ignored until we noticed
the car was making a new sound.
"Probably nothing," Gary said.
"It's tired from these mountain
roads."
We finally admitted we had a
problem and pulled onto a gravel
shoulder. As soon as we got out,
we smelled the smoke from the
right rear tire. It was torn to
pieces.
As we looked for the jack and
the tire iron, it started
raining. Paranoia set in — the
guy at the rental agency had
told us to reject the help of
passing motorists. There was a
chance, he said, that when they
were done rendering aid, we
would find our trunk empty.
Where was the jack? We couldn't
find it. As the panic
snowballed, my friends turned to
me with eyes that said, "Why did
you bring us to this awful,
awful country?"
We spotted a lone restaurant a
little down the road. I walked
over and asked in Spanish, a
language I hadn't used for
years, if I could call the
rental agency.
Once the restaurant owner
understood my intent, he showed
me to the phone. Over a poor
connection, a man from the
rental agency told me the jack
was under the driver's seat. Oh.
We got the car off the ground
but discovered that one of the
bolts holding the spare to the
hatch was stripped. Defeat
gradually replaced panic.
Finally, the restaurant owner
came to our rescue with a
high-quality jack and a vice
grip.
It felt good to get the car back
on the road — but not that good.
Night had fallen, a fierce storm
had blown in, and Gary, aware he
was at fault for the tire, was
paying more attention to our
accusations than to the road. We
vowed to return the car as soon
as possible. And we did.
Later, on a comfy tourist bus,
we ran into a couple from
Rochester, N.Y., who had also
rented a car. While they were
parked by the side of the road
watching a sunset, someone stole
all their luggage.
The moral? In Central America,
driving and splendor do not mix.
Take the bus. |
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