The Perfect Storm: Liberia, Costa Rica

The next morning, we trotted a kilometer up the PanAmerica to the center of town. Once there, we learned there were no bus tickets to Nicaragua. Sunday is Nicaraguan Mother's Day. Since half of Nicaragua's men seem to work in Costa Rica and all of them apparently love mama, there were huge lines at every bus stop.

"We have no tickets until Saturday," we heard everywhere.

At our hotel, we managed to hire a car to the border at a perfectly larcenous rate, but it soon got worse. It started raining. Hard and steady. It continued to rain all day and into the night.

By morning, parts of the hotel were ankle deep in water. On the TV, we learned that an extremely rare—once in 100 years—early season Pacific tropical storm, Alma, was laying off the coast pouring rain onto the country. Soon rivers had broken through levies, and whole towns were under water. In San Jose, there was an frightful bloodbath on the highways (Costa Ricans are horrific drivers.)

Somehow, the idea of standing for hours at the border during a tropical storm, along with the entire mother-mad nation of Nicaragua, was too much. We canceled our car and spent the day watching the news.

There were the usual images you see of people paddling boats down streets of submerged houses, dogs stranded on rooftops, hundreds of wet, miserable people being handed out sandwiches in school gymnasiums. Then, there were the bland public officials assuring everyone that due to special measures taken since the last round of heavy rains, everything would be different this time. Don't worry! Teams are in place! Help has been dispatched to all affected areas! We have called up the special reserve units (whatever it is they do)! Cooperation at national and regional levels has been extraordinary! Everyone is working very hard (with the exception, perhaps, of the bland public official, who is doing nothing)!

Then the news cuts to the Man Who Has Lost Everything. He is standing in a T-shirt and shorts with rain pouring down his face, while Jose, a reporter in a sparkling new poncho and freshly oiled hair, draws near.

"What happened?" asks Jose.

"I lost everything," says the man. He begins to explain how his whole house was inundated by the flood and what little possessions he had were swept away. But suddenly there's an interruption!

Why it's the news anchor, and he has something very important to say. "Jose," he says, "That is a very sad story, and we hope everyone prays for him. But right now we have to go to some amazing footage of a man rescuing a dog from a tree."

And so it went.

The pictures here are from our last watery debacle, when we were in Chiang Mai, Thailand and it rained for about a week. The river that runs through town jumped its banks leaving the entire city in knee deep water.

A truckstop café in Liberia, Costa Rica

We woke up expecting a comfortable van ride north, followed by a taxi ride to our decent hotel. But we had traveled long and hard and slept late. Our breakfast, taken in the courtyard of our old hotel, was some deliciously ripe fruit and rich, smooth Costa Rican coffee. But at the desk the clerk told us that all of the regular minivans had already departed.

Costa Ricans are accommodating folks—probably have seen too many pushy tourists. So she went into a long account of the amazingly expensive options available, including limousine service. We must have looked distressed, and so said, "Or you know, you could take a public bus. That's what I'd recommend."

We took a taxi through the dreary, wet streets and found a shelter of a bus station: concrete blocks and corrugated tin roof. Tickets were a snap and cheap. We listened to the rain drum on the roof of the bus station, staring at a sign that said "Absolutely no farm animals allowed on the bus." In one corner there were six dirty men throwing dice, arguing, drinking; in another a café serving up piles of rice and beans. And the assorted panhandlers of the area who took our worldly wealth a quarter at a time.

A half hour later, and we and twenty Costa Ricans were on a bus, with the air blowing through our hair. We sputtered through a tropical mountain range, ringed by emerald green grass and fields of banana trees and lumpy white cows.

Our goal was Liberia, a transit town consisting of a small grid of muddy streets, a few supermarkets, three bus stops and a dozen hotels. The PanAmerican Highway, which runs through its heart, makes it loud, but otherwise it's pleasant. After getting to our hotel, we walked out to the nearest restaurant, which happened to be in a truckstop. We ordered plates of meat and rice and beans—Costa Rican food is underrated—and set to with gusto.

San Jose, Costa Rica

About the charmless capital of Costa Rica, the less said the better. But that's not much fun. Though San Jose sits in a lush little valley, it is loud, ramshackle, filled with barred windows, corrugated tin roofs, broken sidewalks, huge storm drains, and people standing in doorways looking at you like they would like nothing better than to see you fried in lard, and they wouldn't even like that very much.

Our stay was a brief layover, made somewhat interesting by the fact that our good hotel was in a bad place. We know it was a bad place because it was filled with tire repair shops and patrolled by San Jose's finest streetwalkers. Well, maybe they weren't the finest. They all looked as if they had been stamped out of the same mold at the local hooker factory: giant fake boobs stuffed into leather bras one size too small. They stared at every passerby as if they were utterly bored and murderously inclined. They seemed underemployed too. (Surprise.)

But our hotel, the Britannia, was a lovely old thing, all courtyards, lush plants, and crown moldings. We arrived late and after a quick dinner of crackers and cheese, and a few swigs from our flask, we settled in for a long summer's nap.

La Proxima Parada: San Jose, Costa Rica

Will it qualify as a real tripp? Hard to say, because we are in a state of exhaustion thanks to a four month home renovation. We've chosen to travel all the way to Costa Rica to explore its unique culture, sample its exotic cuisine, hike through stunning cloud forests, scale majestic volcanoes--who are we kidding? We're beat. Say hello to white sand beaches, all inclusive resorts, gallons of Coppertone, and swim-up bars. Viva la Cuba Libre (not the country, the drink).

That said, we may recover in time to take a shot at Nicaragua. Posts start day after tomorrow. We miss traveling.