Walking through the crowded streets, employees in the store fronts would call out through a microphone like an auctioneer to attract any curious bystanders. Along the road front motorcycles would zoom by and vehicles would hit the horn as if it were a Jeopardy buzzer.
Focused on getting to our destination, we would briefly look down at the map to reorientate ourselves.
"About where are we?"
"Okay, two more blocks and then we take a left and walk that way for a while."
Chet, Karen, and I landed in San Jose Costa Rica late the night before. After what felt like a nap, we were off early the next morning to get to the bus depot. We had to get to the Caribbean town of Puerto Viejo. It's a five hour bus ride from San Jose and is the easiest town to cross the border into Bocas Del Toro Panama; our next destination.
After studying the map, we traversed our way to the bus station successfully . Seeing the bus saying Puerto Viejo, we went to purchase our bus ticket.
"Uno boleto para Puerto Viejo." (One ticket for Puerto Viejo.)
The lady at the register looked at us and wrote down Mepe and handed us the paper. The three of us looked at the piece of paper and looked at each other with confusion.
"It says Puerto Viejo on the bus schedule, I don't understand why we can't buy a ticket," said Chet.
"The bus says Puerto Viejo out front and it's obvious that were at the bus station."
Asking another ticket seller, she proceeded to say something in Spanish. Looking at each other again, and then processing what the lady told us, we realized that we were in the wrong spot. After we asked a bus driver to point on the map where the Puerto Viejo bus terminal was, it turns out there is a bus station not labeled as a bus station a few blocks away.
Sitting down to take a momentary break we see another Caucasian family with backpacks and two young daughters obviously confused. They would walk to the bus that said Puerto Viejo, look down at their book, look up, turn around and walk away, turn back and do the same thing.
Wanting to help them out, I walked over and called out, "are you heading to Puerto Viejo?"
The mother looked at me as if I were another person approaching to sell her something and said no and kept walking. The husband hearing me said yes. Hearing their accents I immediately knew they were German. Looking down at their German Costa Rica guide book reconfirmed it. I felt like Sherlock Holmes.
I then proceeded to tell them that we are in the same predicament and that they too were at the wrong bus station. Consulting their book, the husband looks up at me and in his German accent said, "that cannot be. This is the only bus station on the map and those buses say Puerto Viejo. We only want to get to the Caribbean for our vacation."
Trying to help them again, I explain that there is another Puerto Viejo and that this isn't the right one. The husband skeptical of the idea said they would consult the it over food. Leaving them there I headed back to Chet and Karen.
Upon making it to the other bus depot, we were just in time. We bought our tickets, hopped on the bus and then left. Just outside of San Jose it started pouring rain. Windshield wipers on at full speed, our bus driver was determined to stay on schedule.
Through the dense jungle we sped along on the two lane highway. The bus rocking back and forth like a boat and leaking like one, we looked out at the countryside. The bus driver getting behind a semi that was too slow would downshift and proceed to pass only to slip back into the lane to miss oncoming traffic.
After a long day of traveling, we were stoked to get off the bus. Grabbing our bags from the stowage compartment, we were immediately soaked. Walking through the warm rain, we found our way to a hostel glad to be done traveling for the day.
