Central American Epic Part 2.5

We got a little confused when posting Part III of Central American Epic.  This chapter was supposed to go in between part II and part III.  Our apologies.

Adventure Contributor Alex Stoy tells the story of his own Central American escape.

Cobano, Costa Rica is no place to be a solo gringo, entering a bank ATM, and being ignorant.  This is a town with one intersection, one ATM, one store, 4 dirt roads in the shape of a Catholic Cross, and about 50 people staring me down, staring my money down.  There is no ATM where I’m headed so I need to cash in now for 2 weeks worth of adventure and stay.  The dust-covered glass doesn’t serve much protection from the locals perched atop their rogue taxis, and their eagle eyes with what I’m doing.  I can’t hide my money anywhere, that’s pointless at this point so I put the money in my secret pocket within my normal pocket.  A little bit of security helps my fatigued and battered mind.  I walk out onto the broken sidewalk and see a stand of fresh fruit, coconut milk and Coke’s with pure cane sugar, I can’t resist.  This is also a way for me to spend some of my money before I may never see it again.

“Excuse me, can you read English?”  A tall, lanky Jewish teenager asked me as I’m quenching my thirst with an ice cold Mexi-Coke.

“Yeah, why?”

 “I can’t get any money.  I need some money to make the 2 o’clock bus or I won’t make it out of here.  Can you help please?”

We walk across the dusty road of Main Street, Cobano to the ATM and grab the door handle to let my foreign friend in when out of the blue; I have the feeling of cold steel pressing into my left cheek.  In the glass I see it’s a rifle of some sort with a curved cartridge pointing in my direction, finger on the trigger.

Throwing my hands in the air like I’m praying and shouting in a Baptist Church “No entiendo! No entiendo!” over and over and over. It’s the only words I can create with a gun halfway down my throat.  The cold metal shaft of the M-16 presses my head to the right as far as it will turn.

“No entiendo! Hablar muy despacio por favor!  Despacio por favor!”

It’s all I can shout, that I don’t understand what the hell is being yelled into my ear and to please speak slowly.  From what I remember, it didn’t work.

My Jewish friend came running out of the glass enclosed ATM yelling “Ayuda mi!  Este mi amigo!  No problemo!”  But it didn’t work.  The gun pushed deeper into my mouth and the yelling banged on my eardrum with atom bomb explosiveness.

Death, it’s an uncomfortable and freaky feeling, one I really don’t enjoy.   

The world changes color when you’re about to die.  Sounds become white noise and numb.  Feelings become light and painless.  Time stops and I remain frozen in time, ice cold.  The heat and humidity are making it hard to breathe or maybe, it’s the shaft of a gun in my face.  A bead of salty sweat runs through my right eye and stings like a yellow jacket attacking his enemy.  Somehow, I wish the cracks in the concrete sidewalk would open up and swallow me in, taking me away from this place of fear before the power of a trigger; a spring; a bullet and a rifle do.  I just stare at nothing, don’t move and don’t remember the next few moments of time except the image of an armed military man dressed in pale grey khakis and a long-sleeved button down shirt with shiny black boots, wrapped with a sash of copper bullets, his beret slightly sideways with the Costa Rica flag on the front bill, and the matte black M-16, drawn into my ghostly white face.  

My arms, tired from being raised and tremmoring, go numb and bloodless.  I’ve lost all feeling in my fingers.  The shouting in a foreign language I don’t understand continued and I’m ready to faint.

When I think of all the times I’ve come close to death: the time I was T-boned by a semi-truck at 70 mph; falling at high speed on skis over 100 feet of sharp, jagged rock or crashing from a kicker on my 23rd birthday after 23 shots of alcohol and landing on my head, breaking my back, this one happens rather slowly and is in the hands of well, a f**king guy with a f**king gun.  I hate guns.

There’s no getting through to the Militia Man, the language barrier is too much.  He doesn’t speak English; my Jewish friend doesn’t speak Spanish and neither do I.  Hell, I can’t even speak.  I just watch everything right in front of me unfold in the dust covered glass walls.  I wish I could change the channel.

A red Isuzu Rodeo with its bright yellow Taxi sign on the roof rips up onto the scene, the driver’s side door swings wide open and a man of hefty build, shaved head and wearing Cabana like clothing jumps out and starts yelling something in Spanish that gets the Military Man to pull his gun from inside my head and stand down.  I collapse on the hot, red dirt of Cobano’s Main Street speechless and numb to life and stare at nothing.  My Jewish friend sits down next to me and puts his arm across my shoulder.

“We’re only allowed one person in the ATM at a time.  That’s what the sign on the door reads.  He’s just a security guard doing his job.”

Bullets of sweat rage from my forehead, collecting on the cayenne colored dirt.  Spiders and insects scurry and congregate at the pools of salty goodness, drinking in the tears of death quicker than a yucca plant taking in a desert monsoon. I remember to breathe.