Adventure Contributor Alex Stoy tells the story of his own Central American escape.
WARNING: This piece contains some salty language and a drug reference or two. If you're offended by that, you might want to pass on this one.
I’m not feeling well. Something I ate is giving me Montezuma’s Revenge and I have yet to leave Park City, Utah. This will make for a long and interesting journey to a place I don’t know anything about. I have to leave as this is my ‘vacation time off’ from work and only have 2 weeks, not nearly long enough. After working up the courage to leave the bathroom, I jumped in the car and headed off to the airport. At the airport my stomach decided it missd the comfort of porclein so more time in the bathroom was needed. Then it was onto a plane headed for ‘Hot’lanta, GA and I prepared myself for 34 more hours of travel. Luckily, I had 3 seats to myself, which allowed me to cry in fetal position for nearly 5 hours, occasionally running down the lit up runway aisle to the occupied lavatory.
Not even water wants to be in my corrupt system. Projectile vomiting and ferocious shits have become my specialty in Atlanta’s International Terminal and the Delta flight to San Jose, Costa Rica. Again, I’m lucky to have a few open seats to myself as I pray for death, it’s probably more comfortable.
The 92 degree heat and 90% humidity don’t help my situation in San Jose. With my 2000 cubic inch pack, I crawl into a window seat of the red and white, dilapidated bus system of Costa Rica. The only A/C the buses have is 20/30: 20 open windows at 30 miles per hour. At least both the paved and dirt roads have something in common: potholes and cracks. My head slams the metal armrest like Mike Tyson pounding Evander Holyfield.
Hours pass. The sweltering heat is more stagnant than a morgue after a deadly natural disaster. La Senora next to me offers water and a chocolate bar. I wearily accept and try once more to take in a little nutrition. I feel the pounds shed from my body. It’s not a second longer that I jump half my body out of the half cracked window to let it all fly out on the jungles of Costa Rica. I shakingly crawl back down into seat 9A, trying not to smell the puke I just sprayed all over the bus and my clothes. La Senora quickly moved to the front of the bus to stand for the duration of the ride. Maybe somebody will just shoot me and rid me of this pain and suffering, I could only be so hopeful.
One last head bang, a squeal of the brakes and the front door of the bus opens with everybody running outside for the fresh Punta Arena moisture ridden air. I don’t blame them. I crawl out, grab my bag from underneath the rickety old bus and head over to a burger shack. I need to get something in me as I’m withering away faster than a rose plant in the middle of the Sonoran Desert. I’m low on energy and haven’t had any nutrition for 26 hours now, not even a drop of water. I ordered a burger, fries and a coke. It’s like I just had a late night binger but what am I thinking? Oh right, where’s the closest bathroom. I run.
As I’m sitting on the toilet waiting for death to calm in the storm in my stomach, a foghorn roars summoning all traveler’s to the pier. I finish up as quick as possible and run out of the porta potty to the closest person I can find.
“Cuantos Kilometros?” Pointing in the direction of the pier.
“3”
I sling my beaten down orange pack over my shoulder, grab the rest of my Coke and start sprinting like a sloth up a tree. Heads snap. Cheers roar.
"‘Norte Americano! Arriba Arriba Arriba!”
“Go go go!”
This spurt of energy lasts for a kilometer or so before I’m depleted and empty like a Cadillac with a 3-gallon tank. The white boned ferry is further from the port than I thought so I slow to a snails pace, dripping with sweat. The line of cars comes into sight so I’m not too far off. I need to make this ferry as it’s the last one for the day. Punta Arena is pretty and all, but I’d rather take my chances at swimming across the channel to continue my journey than spend a night in this dilapidated town.
Walking along the kilometer long line of cars I happen to hear some English coming from behind a VW bus with 5 surf boards strapped to the top and 4 gringos sitting on the shady side with Tecate’s in hand. I decide to take my chances and ask them if I can hitch a ride.
“You’ll have to ask the Captain. He’s passed out in the shade over there,” said the most coherent of them all.
I shake the Captain’s shoulder, trying to wake him up. I take a whiff of the Captain’s day old Tequila, Beer and Vodka cologne and run for the next available palm tree and project acid green vomitous on its shredded, brown bark. It sizzles.
Wiping the remains from my face, I head back to the Captain and violently shake him. Quarter cognizant, his blood shot right eye half open I ask him hoping he will understand what it is I’m saying,
“You mind if I catch a ride with you. I’m heading to...”
Drunk, dehydrated, button down shirt torn and wide open, surf shorts barely up enough to cover his taint, he mumbles “Where ya goin?” The tequila bottles fall from his hands, his head falls to his left shoulder.
“Jump in.”
I run back to the van excited I don’t have to hitch hike, ride a bus and can finally talk to somebody without using my perfect Spanglish.
“You got a ticket?”
“A ticket?”
“Yeah, everyone needs a ticket. Can’t just buy by the car. The line forms over there. Meet us on the ferry if they haven’t sold out yet. Prolly take your pack just in case.”
The lines f#*king long and it’s hotter than hell out. I’m feeling much better but still miserable. But at least I’m not the Captain.
I have about 5000 Colons left to pay for a ticket (1000 Colons), buy these guys some beer to pay them and eventually make it to my destination. I’m left with 100 Colons. Hope there is a bank, somewhere.
The VW van is loaded with everything you need to spend 2 weeks in Mal Pais surfing. A couple of cases of Tequila, wetsuits, wax and weed, a lot of weed. I take a hit and am offered a coconut drink, I’m told it will help improve my condition. So will the weed so I take another hit and sit back on the Mexican rug in the corner of this Magic Bus.
I love the game of “Where ya from?” It’s a small world and I’m always bound to run into someone I know or complete the 7 degrees of Kevin Bacon. This time, its 2 degrees.
“I’m from the Poc’s.”
“Get the hell outta here! The Captains wedding is in the Pocs! This is his bachelor party. We’ve got about 10 guys coming down. You know….” Here we go.
In the middle of Costa and I’m running into a group of guys partying prior to a wedding to be held in my backyard! And, 3 guys coming down are good ski buddies of mine. I’m sure as hell am gonna show up in Mal Pais next week. I take a swig of the Coconut milk and another hit of the Cali green. I feel pretty good, lay my head back without getting dizzy for the first time in days, at least it seems, and pass out.
Stay tuned for Central American Epic Part III.
Feeling lost? Check out Part I.
Alex Stoy is an adventure sports junkie who has been exploring the world for over 25 years. Stoy lives in Park City, UT and is always on the lookout for 'idiotic adventures' including running, yoga, ski mountaineering, canyoneering, mountain biking in random and off the beaten path locations like Argentina, Colombia, the desert southwest and Rocky Mountains of North America as well as interior Canada and Hawai'i.
Stoy's writings capture his life experiences through his own eyes and travels. His goal is to bring people the most intimate view of what it really is like travelling and adventuring in his shoes which are sometimes buried in a foot of Death Valley sand or fresh Wasatch Powder.