"Stormin` Norman and the Crazy Monkey"

I was up early on the day of the border crossing because you just never know how long these things will take. I didn`t expect it to be as bad as Honduras but I didn`t want to be complacent. This would be my first solo crossing since Mexico (it seems a long time ago now), but with the experience of Guatemala, Belize, El Salvador, Honduras and Nicaragua behind me I felt confident in the process. Apart from the ability to speak even a little Spanish, the key to border crossings is huge amounts of patience. With enough time, you can figure out most things. Never attempt to cross a border if you are pushed for time. The Pihranas (aka helpers) will sense that and basically you`ll get screwed.

As I approached the border I passed what seemed like several miles of queuing, stationary trucks. There must have been 100`s of them and by the look the hammocks slung between the wheels they had obviously been there for a while. This could be a busier crossing than I thought, I mused as I weaved past them to the front.

There was certainly less pressure than Honduras but the whole process still took
over two hours of being shunted from building to building getting the mandatory photocopies and stamped paperwork. Considering my previous struggle with anything involving queuing, this process would have driven me crazy, but now I just take it as it comes. What a transformation! I wonder if it will last?

"It`s like deja vu all over again!" - Yogi Berra


With all the paperwork complete and sweat pouring from me I fired up the engine and crossed into Costa Rica for the second time. It seemed very strange to be riding the same roads Jane and I had driven down only 6 weeks previously, and at the same time it was reassuring. It felt familiar and comfortable. The key difference this time would be I would be roughing it instead of enjoying the good life!

I made for the coastal town of Jaco which I`d noticed 6 weeks earlier. It was another surfer type town with Costa Rican type prices. Nicaraguan value for money seemed like another world. Costa Rica is well known for being the most developed and expensive of all the Central American countries. I wouldn`t be spending too much time here although I really like the place. The people are nice, language isn`t a problem, they are very geared up for tourism and they have great coffee.

I spent a couple of nights in Jaco mainly to recover from the ride. My back was feeling the strain so I thought it best give it an extra night and try to book a massage to speed up the recovery time. From Jaco I followed the coast road and was trying to get as near the border as I could to make it a quicker crossing the following day, but every likely town I came across looked depressingly run down so I just kept on riding. I noticed a large town on the map and decided that Ciudad Neily would definitely be my stopover point as it was only 20 minutes from the border and I was bound to find somewhere decent to stay.

The town was much smaller than it appeared on the map and after riding around for a while I was drawing a blank. As I pulled over to ask for help, a man on a little 125 cc rode up to me and asked if I was looking for a hotel.

“Follow me. I`ll show you” he said, and so an few minutes and couple of dirt tracks later we pulled up in front of what appeared to be a decent place, with a/c and internet. Perfect! The only drawback being they were full.

“Can you recommend anywhere else?” I asked hopefully.

“Everywhere is full” was the reply. “Everywhere? But there must be a room somewhere?” I added, trying to mask the mounting frustration. After a long ride, with sweat pouring off you and rain now looking imminent, this is not the situation you want.

“Everywhere is full because of the festival”

“Festival?”

“Si, Festival de La Luces”

Apparently I`d arrived at a bad time. “The Festival of the Lights” is a huge celebration in parts of Costa Rica and people from miles around had descended on this little town to celebrate it. I sat in a local restaurant, ordered some food and thought through my options. I could wait for a couple of hours to see if they had any cancellations or push on further. As I drank my coffee, the threatened rain appeared. That was it. I wasn’t riding anywhere today. There must be a room somewhere. As I drained the coffee and finished my chicken sandwich the man on the 125 appeared again,

“I have found a place with one room left. It`s very nice and just around the corner, but they want $50 for the night”

“$50!” I exclaimed, “That`s crazy!”

He shrugged his shoulders in agreement. They were obviously cashing in on the situation. With no other options available and with heavy rain falling I found the hospedaje and was determined not to pay their asking price,

“Yo recaudo fundos para la gente sin hogares y no tengo mucho dinero. Si es possible hacerlo mas barata por favor?”

(So basically, I`m fundraising for homeless people and I haven`t got much money.) I offered $30 (which was still over the odds) and we had an agreement.

That night I went to a bar and watched the huge celebrations from the capital, San Jose before heading out into the streets for what was the longest parade I`d seen in years. Very colourful and very loud, but after 1 ½ hours I was beginning to tire somewhat. Still, now I knew what “La Festival de la Luces” was all about. The next day I was up early for another border crossing into Panama. Surely this would be a simple affair compared to the others. Either way, armed with my new “laid back” philosophy, I was optimistic and confident.




Exiting Costa Rica was fairly straightforward and so when I arrived at migracion to get my passport stamped into Panama I expected it to be equally simple. Even the long queue didn`t phase me (initially). I waited in line for well over an hour, pouring with sweat, and the queue didn`t move an inch. NOT AN INCH!! And nobody bothered! I`ve come to the conclusion that Central Americans are either born with an exceptional “laid back gene” or they`re just resigned to the bumbling incompetence and pointless red tape that their countries thrive on. One thing`s for sure, no border official will EVER die of stress related illness.

Whilst watching this object lesson in ineptitude unfold, I noticed another bike pull up behind me. It had U.S. plates so I naturally assumed Andy was American. He was in fact from Grimsby (!) but now lived and worked in New York. He too was heading south. I was on my way to stay with an ex pat from England in a town not far away, so I suggested he join me and maybe we could both stay with Norman.

Norman had responded to a post I`d put on the net offering me a place to stay for the night, and since I never refuse offers of help I readily accepted. When we eventually found his place in the country it certainly wasn`t what I was expecting.

Villa Paula was a huge sprawling place. We rode in and pulled up in front of several bikes with a party seemingly in full swing. A tall bearded man in combat trousers greeted us with,

“You must be Brian, help yourself to a beer!”

“You must be Norman, thanks I will!”

“This is Andy. We met at the border. I hope you don`t mind both of us staying?”

“No problem. We have plenty of room”

There must have been nearly 20 people, Brits, Americans and Panamanians having a BBQ and drinking beer. Norman introduced us to everyone and as we relaxed and chatted over several beers, it transpired that all of the Brits and Americans had moved to Panama after years of disillusionment with their respective countries. A theme I had heard many times during my journey. I asked Billy from the U.S.,

“Yes, but what do you do all day?”

“Drink beer and have sex”, he replied.

“Yes but are you happy?”

He didn`t answer, just gave me one of those looks. And with that $1,000,000 question left hanging in the air I went to talk to Norman. On the way I was accosted by a monkey. One of 6 that seemed to live with Norman, only this one was a relative baby and was free to roam and terrorise. He had clearly taken a liking to me.

“It`s the colour of your hair. He`s attracted to fair haired people. I think it reminds him of his mother!”

“Thanks Norman!".

None taken! From that moment on, the bloody monkey wouldn`t leave me alone. I had my very own simian stalker. Later in the afternoon, most of the bikers headed off and things quietened down (apart from the monkey).

“Is it like this every Sunday?”

“More or less!” Norman replied.

Not surprising then that many bikers on their way south call in and sample Norman`s legendary hospitality.

“This reminds me of Apocalypse Now”, I said, “You`re Marlon Brando. You`ve gone native and set up a biker commune!”

The next morning we set off early (though not early enough to avoid the monkey) to get as close to Panama City as possible. As the sky turned dark and began to rain I was leading the way along a dual carriage way when up ahead I spotted an policeman by the roadside waving me down. Not another check, I thought as I switched off my engine,

“Como esta?” he enquired (very politely I thought)

“Muy bien, gracias”

It was then I saw the speed gun in his hand and with a smile he mentioned several numbers in Spanish and then pointed to the readout on the radar gun,

“96 kph”, he said.

Apparently the speed limit was 50 kph. Which is crazy! That`s just 25mph! On a dual carriage way? Bugger, for the first time on the whole trip I been caught speeding. It was almost funny. Me, speeding? On my bike? Nevertheless, I was guilty as charged. I pointed out the “Journey for Hope” and what I was doing it for hoping it would make a difference. He said something I didn`t understand and then mentioned “bolleto” and in English “ticket” which I did understand, followed by “pero”……

In essence, he said he should give you a ticket but this time he won`t. With profuse apologies and thanks and not a little relief, we waved an adios and rode off sticking to the ridiculous speed limits from then on. By midday I had ridden enough and decided to find a hotel and Andy decided to push on and find somewhere by a beach. I`d noticed a decent looking hotel in the town of Penonome and checked in just as the rain began to fall again. The room was clean and had a/c and they let me park the bike in the hotel lobby but sadly, the promised wifi didn`t work and after a tiring and fruitless search through the town I called it a day and had an early night.

Another early start saw me on the road to Panama City. I wanted to get there with plenty of time to find The Mamallena Hostel which had been recommended to me. I`d managed to locate it on my GPS which although not very detailed, was proving useful enough to navigate around and through cities and towns. Panama City I had been told, looked remarkably like Miami and as I approached, I noticed the skyline from distance full of high rise buildings and sky scrapers. After negotiating heavy traffic I knew I was very close to the hostel but unfortunately, the GPS didn’t seem to recognise the city`s one way system and so there followed a very frustrating 45 mins riding in circles trying to get into the road I needed. After asking a couple of locals I eventually managed to find the right road.

The hostel was obviously the main backpacker`s destination in the city. It was almost full with the only bed available in a dorm with 7 other people. Still, any port in a storm, and it was only $12. As I checked in I was told,

“Unfortunately, we don`t have any water. The water`s been off since yesterday. Panama has had too much rain”

“No water! No shower and no toilet?” She just shrugged and said, “Hopefully it will be back on tonight”

The sweat was pouring off me and my clothes were probably capable of standing up by themselves but judging by the squalor in my dorm, everyone else stank just as much as me. And as the saying goes, “Pigs don`t know that pigs stink”.

For the next few hours I sat around in my sweaty clothes and caught up with my e mails. I heard a whisper around the hostel that the water was back on, so I rushed (in a very dignified way of course) for my towel and found the showers. There was indeed water, but just a trickle of cold water. Nevertheless it was water and I did my best to shower as the trickle downgraded itself to a few drips. Feeling strangely refreshed from the “shower”, I reflected on how the very basic things in life can raise your spirits.

The next morning I had planned to ride to the cargo terminal of the airport where I had to find Girag, the shipping company I had corresponded with by e mail. According to my contact there, all I had to do was take my bike in the day before I wanted it shipped and it would all be very straightforward. Feeling skeptical about anything being “straightforward” in Central America I set off early and arrived just after 9.00 a.m. Andy was already there and was half way through the process,

“How`s it going?” I asked.

“No problem. They just inspected the bike and didn`t even ask about the petrol!”

When shipping a bike, most companies insist on the tank being virtually empty and often you also need to disconnect the battery. My bike was processed in the same way. Nobody mentioned fuel, battery or anything for that matter. A couple of hours later, and having both been relieved of $901 cash (!), we were sitting in a taxi on our way back to the city. Andy would be flying out in a couple of days while I had to wait for another four days. We both agreed that there was nothing in Panama City to tempt us to stay a day longer than necessary. When I arrived back at the hostel I enquired as to the possibility of upgrading to a private room,

“Don’t like the dorm life?” he asked with a wry smile.

“I just can`t get any sleep” I replied.

The previous night just reinforced the fact that I`m not cut out for the backpacker`s life. Every few minutes someone would be getting up, going to the toilet, opening doors, closing doors, tossing and turning, snoring. How the hell can people sleep through that stuff!! I knew I`d been spoilt in Cost Rica with Jane but this was definitely the sublime to the ridiculous.

“Well there are a couple of hotels around the corner for about $25-30”

“Thanks. I`ll check out in an hour”

The next few days were spent in the relative luxury of a single room, comfortable bed and a noisy generator outside my window! Still, at least it didn`t make snoring noises. With time on my hands I took a taxi to see the Panama Canal. As a major landmark I thought it had to be seen and indeed I did find it interesting, especially the politics surrounding it`s transference from U.S. rule to Panama in 1999. The rest of the time was spent catching up with my blog and waiting for my flight to Bogota and the prospect of setting foot on South American soil for the third and final leg of my Journey for Hope.