PDXDIASan Jose, Costa RicaReflections on San JoseSanta Elena, Costa RicaLiberia and BeyondBorder Crossing: Penas BlancasGranada, NicaraguaMia NicaraguaNica CultureLeonSan Miguel, El SalvadorJutiapa, GuatemalaXela (Quetzaltenango), GuatemalaCasa VSuenos AmericanosUna semana mas en XelaZugunruheLago de AtitlanAntiguaSemuc ChampeyTikal, GuatemalaSan Salvador, El SalvadorSuchitoto, El SalvadorSanta Rosa de Lima, El SalvadorMore on BusesGranada, againPanama City, PanamaBocas del Toro, PanamaSan Jose, la ultima vez
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San José, Costa Rica
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We were tired. Weary and worn by boat, bus, and border, we arrived, once again, in San Jose. It was late and the complications surrounding international phone calls, along with the general uncertainty of how far we would make it that day, had prevented us from making reservations at a hostel. We were foolish. It was spring break and holy week. Our fortune might not be good enough to shelter us this time. But, there we were: at an unknown bus terminal in San Jose at night.
We normally don't spring for taxis—they're expensive and a pretty good way to get scammed—but this time we decided to stray from the norm. We filed off the bus into the swarm of eager taxi drivers bidding for our patronage and, after collecting our belongings and taking quick glance at the map of San Jose, tentatively approached the nearest cabbie. “We would like to go to Tranquilo Backpackers.” “Okay. No problema. Maybe we call first to see they have room?” We eyed his cell phone suspiciously, but assented to the suggestion. “Hola. Tranquilo Backpackers? Tiene espacio para dos personas? Si, esta noche. Llenos? Gracias...Full,” he informed us. “But suggested this hostel.” He pulled a dirty flier out of his pocket. We asked, “How about Hostel Pangea?” He dialed the number under my watchful eye. “You want to talk?” he asked. “Sure,” I said. He handed me the phone. A voice said, “Hola?” “Hola. Habla ingles?” “No.” “Tiene camas esta noche?” “No. Estamos llenos.” The voice was abrupt and certain. “Gracias.” “All the popular hotels full,” our cabbie said, “it very late.” We looked around us. The terminal was deserted. The other travelers had long since departed in little red taxis. He flashed his photocopied flier at us again. “I take you here.” I looked at Brendan. His glance confirmed my own discomfort with the developing situation. “We would like to go to Tranquilo anyway. We can figure it out from there. Will you take us?” “No.” We turned our backs on him and approached the only other remaining cabbie. “Tranquilo Backpackers?” we asked, forgoing sentences, English or Spansih, for the moment. “Si! Si!” “Usa el contador?” “No. Dos mil colones.” “No. El contador.” “No.” Our choices were a driver that refused to take us where we wanted to go or a driver that refused to use his meter to take us where we wanted to go. “Okay,” we said, and started walking into the night, roughly guided by the recognizable cluster of downtown buildings.
After a couple blocks of venting our anger and frustration while scanning our surroundings for trouble, I said, “Wait, I recognize this place.” “Me too,” said Brendan. Indeed, we were in the red light district of San Jose, just a few blocks from our original hostel.
We arrived at the familiar, razor wired compound to find that they did, in fact, have room for us. We put our bags next to our beds and went to the bar, feeling satisfied with ourselves for having avoided a scam and disappointed with ourselves for having wasted so much time considering a scam. But we were relieved enough to give the nachos in Central America one more chance to redeem themselves. They didn't quite pull it off, but we didn't seem to mind.
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Exposition, Rising Action, Climax, Falling Action, Denouement.
(R)
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