It is 6 A.M., Jess and I are waiting in the airport for our flight to Costa Rica, and I have just spent the last 24 hours wondering if this is the first time I will poop my pants since I was about 8.* It is our last day in Guatemala for a few weeks and my stomach has decided to turn on me. The same thing happened the last time we were on our way out of this airport nearly a year ago. We were with a group from our church, Solomon’s Porch, and I am hoping history does not repeat itself. Sort of.
A year ago we were on our way home via Houston after a week of building homes with and for some Mayan people. The flight was a mostly uneventful one, save for the brief time preceding and up until the take off. Nearly everyone on our plane was white, save for less than a hand’s count of Guatemalans. A large group of about 50 people from another church took up a large portion of the plane. They were mostly high school aged, save for a few leaders. They were probably on their way home from a spring break trip. As we boarded the plane the were getting rowdy, laughing, most likely anxious to get home.
Jess and I were seated together in front of Eric Smith, a member of our group and the regular drummer at Solomon’s Porch. In his row was a man from New Orleans, who had made a practice of spending a week every year volunteering on construction projects in Guatemala, and a Guatemalan man. As the airplane began to take off the large church group took to raising their arms up, roller coaster style. Most everyone outside this group were resting their arms at their sides, but as I lifted my head to look around** the Guatemalan man decided to join this group. It didn’t take him long to realize that he was the only one outside of this group practicing this pre-flight ritual, slowly lowering his arms to his sides. In his mind, he was probably just following what momentarily seemed to be airplane protocol. The funny thing, though, is that he had probably never ridden on a roller coaster, let alone in an airplane.
I am quasi hoping for some sort of cultural misunderstanding like this to happen on our way to Costa Rica. unfortunately it is a mostly uneventful 90 minutes trip. Most of the passengers are of latinos and everyone is speaking Spanish. When we land, in San Jose, we are greeted by the nicest airport in Central America. There are tiles everywhere, fresh cut flowers in the bathroom, and you can even flush the toliet paper down the toilet. After getting our luggage*** we take a $20 taxi ride 20 minutes to the bus station for tickets to Manuel Antonio National Park, a national park and beach town in the Central West Coast. We are immediately greeted by a taxi pimp who proceeds to ask us no less than 5 times if we want to spend $80 on a taxi to our destination, this despite having walked us to the ticket office and watching us buy our tickets (retail value: less than $10).
It is 10:54 a.m. and our bus does not leave for another two hours. Lunch is in order. A few blocks from the bus station we find a food court across the street from a hospital. Most of the doctors in line here do not seem deterred by this fact. Two sodas, a burger, a chicken sandwich, and some fries later and the bathroom is sounding like a good idea before our three hour plus bus ride. The only problem is that the men’s bathroom went ahead and decided that toilet seats and toilet paper were not necessary. I disagree, and my stomach is on my side. Jess informs me that the women’s bathroom are much nicer. She checks to see if the coast is clear, waves me in, and head down I rush into the nearest stall. I move quickly, wash my hands, and get out without incident. Onto the bus we go.
The seats are cramped but their is air-conditioning, so long as the windows are open and the bus is moving. The buses are nicer than in Guatemala, and their is actually assigned seating (as opposed to the Guatemalan school bus style three to a seat). Outside of San Jose, the roads are like the interior pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Our ride is extended by a good hour due to an accident, several construction zones, the occasional one-lane bridge, and some unmarked bus stops dropping passengers off seemingly in the middle of nowhere.
As we near the coast the roads straighten out. We pass over mountains, rivers with crocodiles in them, a plantain farm, and several towns. We arrive into Manuel Antonio 100 meters from the ocean, about a half-hour until the sun will set, sweating, and without a place to stay. A wet man in a bathing suit on a bicycle takes us to his place, Jorge’s Cabinas where we will spend the next three nights. We drop our bags, get out of our sweaty clothes and watch the sun go down on our time in Guatemala on our first night in Costa Rica.
- Josh, March 6, 2007
