The composting system for the toilets is schedule for 9:00 on Thursday.

The solar electrical system inspection is “sometime tomorrow.”

I have received the contract from my attorney.

This might friggin’ actually happen.

At 6:20 a mini bus pulled up in the street in front of my Aparthotel. The driver non chalantly took my boxes. Rather than load them on top they were passed through the windows. The bus has 21 seats split configuration, two on the left, one on the right for each row. I brought the total of passengers to four.

Rudy gave me more unwanted and unneeded advice on how to survive in this world and in particular my immediate destinations, both places in which I have lived and he has but heard about.

The air conditioning in the bus is more than effective, it is downright cold in here.
Craggy peaks and steep mountains in the hazy blue mist vast expanses of green some forested, some pasture, steep slopes rising as fast as they ran plunged down into valleys on either side of the crest on which the rode was situated. The road ever twisting but not in the manner of switchbacks wound its way through villages and rural areas, living fences of limbs sprouting in a row renewing themselves not as appendages but as saplings and trees in their own right. Vines and enormous leaved ferns the occassional banana tree, palms of every sort, ornamental bushes, yellow, orange, red, and purple with blossoms of every hue. Fat, health, lazy brama cattle.

7:30 stopped at a soda. “Pora desayuno o solomente bano?” “Bano.” Two women, apparently sisters, with smooth wrinkle free complexions, large hawkish noses and grey hair disembarked. One clad from foot to head in sandals, long pangs a white cotton improvised skirt and a brown top with fabric hanging down in folds from the arms looked like a garment rack for the disheveled. The other, with orange plastic spectacles and circular lenses was the embodiment of Poindexter. The third woman had was short and stout, with a brush cut. Her calves were the size of my thighs.

Orange spectacles walked into the restaurant and then departed down a trail and was presently around a bend, out of sight. I exited the bus sat at the counter an ordered a coffee. “Un cafe negor, grandel por favor.” The coffee was quickly served, hot and rich. “Desayno?” “Solomente carne guisada.” “Arroz, frijoles?” What part of ‘solomente’ was not clear? “No, gracias.” The woman reappeared and entered the bus. “Necessito, carne pora llevar, insufficiente tiempo pora aqui.” The woman graciously transferred my stew to a styrofoam bowl. “Salsa Caliente?” I was handed a plastic squeeze bottle and gave a blast. I looked at the woman and with a smile and a kidding, “Malo, malo, este salsa tamatilla, yo quiero picante, mucho picante, este pora nino.” She laughed and I rant off to the bus, my grub in hand and a barely touched coffee on the counter. “Quento?” “Un mill.” I guess Costa Rica’s not bad if you get out of the tourist traps. But I think I’ve had my last trip to Fortuna unless I’m showing someone around. Too much world.

Blogging on my netbook is wonderful. A full sized laptop could not be opened in the confines of my seating and touch typing on an ipad is cumbersome and requires transcription. The cost to you is a long blog entry.

Simple gestures. Asking the bus driver if he wants a coffee, offering gum to fellow passengers. It toesn’t take much to get people out of their shells.

Everything is labelled “Puerto Viejo and we are hours from our tiny destination.
A muffler shop on the edge of a city . Long stretch of unkempt green scrub just psss the unpaved shoulder of the road with everything from grasses to plants with eight and ten foot leaves on one side of the road, close cropped pasture on the other.Narrow rocky rivers in wide gulches, testimony to the ravages of tropical rainfall.

A huge heather a massive meadow. Papaya trees. Palm trees bursting with orange coconuts.

8:21 San Jose kilometers.

9:45 stopped at a roadside soda, more carne guisada, some undercooked lentils Picked up three more passengers and transferred to a very stiff suspension van with much less leg room. I left my hat in the bus, but the driver brought it over to me. Thank god they transferred my chairs. I need adult supervision.

11:15 Stopped at sloth sanctuary, dropped off one person who was voluntering. Almost there. Bathroom break for the women. Natalie from Las Angeles, two women, sisters one lives in Mexico City the other left when 17 and travelled all over the world, went to college in Israel.

12:00 Bought a ticket to Sixoula for 1,440 Colones, leaves at 12:30 first bus leaves at 6:30 then 8:30 and every hour thereafter until 5:30. Across the street from the bus ticket station is a “Cocal Cola” a red building with a big red awning emblazoned “Coca Cola”. Next door is the bus stop to Sixaola. I had to place my boxes containing chairs underneath myself and well could have removed luggage that was stowed there to be scurried away by an accomplice. Travel time is an hour and a half. I have no idea how I am going to get these boxes over the bridge.

1:52 Sixoula
A Indian boy greeted me and offered to assist me with my boxes. We walked over to immigration, I ran into a woman who works at Tropical Markets and we agreed to share a collectivo. We walked the 250 yards across the bridge, each with our boxes atop our respective heads. I bought a ticket from Sixoula to San Jose, required by immigration to prove that one is planning on departing, that I might never use (a $12 ripoff, they charge the same to go to Puerto viejo when the actual fare is less than $3) and obtained my entrance stamp. We walked down the steps and I passed the boxes to the collectivo operator atop the van. A man from customs came down and said I had to clear the boxes through customs. I had no reciept so they were held for me to claim until such time as I could come up with a reciept. I asked for a receipt stating that they were holding these chairs and the supervisor labored over it nearly interminably. I finally returned to the van which by now had been vacated. I grabbed my backpack and was told my friends were in another van one in which I now sit and swelter. Apparently we are going to wait here until they sell the last seat and no progress has been made in half an hour. This is bananas country.

Just as I finished this sufficient people boarded to fill the van to capacity. I have no idea what we are waiting on at this point. Ahh securing luggage to the top. It is 3:05 and we are finally moving again.

The driver turns on the music. “Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress.” Things are looking up. “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?”,
That song they play at hockey games, “Rock and Roll Girls”, “Hi di ho” “Beds are Burning”,
“Money Money”, “The One I Love”, “Pretty Woman”

3:57 at almirante bus station.

He tried to take us to Taxi 25, “Fuck those people.: I walked back to BMT and got right on a boat, past the rest of the passengers in the van milling about at the newly relocated Janpan (not to be confused with Janpan tours operating out of Bocas Town, they are pretty straight up people). Back to Bocas Town, old friends and a really cute girl doing glow in the dark hula tricks.

Two large cardboard cartons with unassembled rocking chairs ready to be rejected by the cooperativa driver. Maybe I can convince him to strap them to the root. It’s a Costa Rican rain dance. My most annoying host, trying to be friendly walks into my room every five minutes. Go away, Rudy. Go abuse yourself or something.

Four hours to Puerto Viejo then bus to border, or van straight through or catch a boat, this is not well planned.

Today I will be stopping by the encomiendo to pick up my rocking chairs. For those not familiar with the ways of Central America goods are frequently shipped from one encomiendo to another in the luggage areas of long haul buses. Every major city will have at least one. Goods can be shipped very inexpensively across a country for a few dollars.

The goods to be transported are delivered at an encomiendo, which is always adjacent to a bus stop. The fee is paid, an addressee specified and the goods are placed on the next available bus. Hours later they arrive at the destination at well known times and by presentation of identification the packages can be picked up.

Rudy, my host, is pushing me to get my hair cut by some woman in town that he thinks I would find highly desirable for more than hair cutting. He just offered to go to the transport office and buy me a ticket on a shuttle in a shared van to Puerto Viejo tomorrow, the fare is but $50. I can’t wait to get home. Perhaps I shall have a brief layover in Puerto Viejo but I have learned that a couple of my friends and acquaintances in town have moved on, to parts unknown.

The electricity has gone out throughout town. I made a small purchase at a local supermarket and in the confusion left my small package after paying for it. A woman followed me for a kilometer to inform me that I had left my package. She had been unable to overtake my brisk walk. After informing me she turn and returned from whence she came.

When I first came to Costa Rica it seemed a wonderful and exotic place. Having travelled all over Central America it seems more an over priced destination seriously deficient in infrastructure. Give me Panama any day.

A walk through the jungle should be done slowly, this is not and endurance contest or a race. If you want to see animals you stop and look around. A tree can be looked at for twenty minutes, look, I see over fifty different kinds of orchid on that tree. That is lichen, that is monkey’s ladder. This is a walking palm, let me tell about it, the trees actually walk. This palm is the source of palm hearts, that is a fan palm. Look an armadillo hole. This is a tarantula hole. Behold, a sloth. Hear that? That is a toucan. See the anole? Hello? Where are you racing off to? A group of howler monkeys. Leaf cutter ants. A basilisk lizard. A green eyelash viper.

This is not a zoo, this is the wild. Take your time, look around, breathe deeply, take in the scents.

I started off with the intent to get a haircut and drop by and see some acquaintances I met in August 2009 when I lived in Fortuna for a month. I never found the place that “cuts the hairs”. The travel kiosk was “manned” by someone else. When I asked the woman for the whereabouts of the proprietor from my former visit she went next door and gave me a list of five people who have operated the kiosk in the last two years and described each of them to me then told me where I could find Roy.

I returned to my apartment, chastised a few people in Panama for bananas country behavior, not following through on commitments and sent an email to Matias Zeledon, the coffee proprietor. It was but two sentences long. “Are you still in Fortuna? I bought a rocking chair from you two years ago, I dropped by your shop, but it is now a chocoleteria. Cheers, Jim Schmidt”

A couple of minutes later I got a response, yes he had moved and he remembered me well. Yeah, right. I walked down to his shop, “Hey, how is the computer business going? Are you still living in Puerto Viejo?” I spent two hours with the guy two years ago. I forget that much about anybody but a really good looking woman in about an hour.

I bought a couple of rocking chairs, which will be delivered on Saturday and shot the shit with a guy who was supporting himself making travel videos. Not that it matters, but my first impression was that he was gay. Then he talked about himself for a while and I was sure. Then he showed me a picture of his wife and kids. WTF? I’m usually not bad at this stuff. I went back to my apartment to follow up on more email and looked up his site. This could be kind of a fun project for Panama, but trust me, I won’t be appearing shirtless with pierced nipples.

Trying to get elicit some response I sent off more emails. Rudy kept knocking on my door. He wanted me to participate in his English lessons with his students. “Sometimes in English they substitute the ‘R for ‘T’ ‘What do you want to eat? becomes Whar to you want to ear?” No, Rudy, that’s not true, nobody does that. “I have an excellent ear.” Rudy, amarillo is pronounced “yellow” not “jello”. These poor students.

I spent the day mostly in bed a much needed day of recuperation and rest. Rudy spent the day being Rudy a task few would dare to attempt. He continually knocked on my door to introduce me to the various subjects, err, students that are being taught his tortured English. I took special pity on the twenty two year old girl he tried to hook me up with.

These people are so parsimonious they turn off the room lights when they blink. Rudy observed that I had lights on in the bedroom and the living room and asked me how many rooms I could be in at a time, swear to god.

Dinner at Don Rufino’s was very good and the company was excellent having managed to catch up with the couple that prompted this visit. Today I ahall hang out a little with them at the wonderful resort at which they are staying. Matias Zeledon of Down to Earth Coffee invited me to drop by. Maybe I can get him to brew me some of his awesome coffee; the last time I saw him he only sold beans although I did convince him to have a local restaurant brew me up a small batch. Hopefully he still sells those wonderful rocking chairs, if so I shall have to acquire a couple.

Today? Who knows? Lounging, sauntering in magnificent gardens, chatting poolside, perhaps the hanging bridges.

”It is time to get up. The time is five o’clock.” I reached over and grabbed my cell phone and reset the alarm for 5:30. Another restless night’s sleep, punctuated by half hour intervals of pacing and gnoshing since I retired four hours previously. Half an hour later my cell phone provoked me again. I made a pot of coffee and packed some clothes in my day pack along with my notebook and netbook computer. A little after six I headed out the door and walked to Walter’s real estate office. I gave him my notebook computer and my external drives for safekeeping and took my digital SLR camera. We walked over to Bocas Marine tours and bought tickets for the water taxi to Almirante. The six thirty boat was full. I ordered eggs and a couple of cups of coffee and nourished myself while waiting for the seven o’clock departure. A few minutes before seven we boarded the boat, taking the rear most of the six bench seats. The closer to the bow, the more ass pounding one gets and I had no great desire to have my ass pounded this morning. Four girls from Texas took the seat ahead of us and we discussed the weather in Texas. One was attending A&M, poor thing and had left weather even more inhospitable than the 113 degrees Dallas was experiencing.

Twenty five minutes later we were in Almirante with the usual hustle, “Where are you going my friend?” “I thought I’d pop by Lago Arenal and that lovely German bakery on the east shore, take in the hanging bridges, stop by the Observatory Lodge at the base of the Volcano then go for a jungle walk the next day. How about you?” “My friend are you going to Puerto Viejo?” No point in talking to this moron. I invited the Texas girls to ride along with us to Chaginoula but the opted for public transport as our SUV wasn’t really large enough for all of us in comfort. Walter and I walked a couple of hundred feet to the parking lot where Chester’s SUV is kept safe and secure for $40 a month, got the car and headed out to Changuinola. Cool morning, low hanging clouds enveloped the base of the hills. With the windows down it verged on chilly. Thirty five minutes later we passed through town and stopped at a road side cafe with which Walter was familiar. The owner/operators were from Boquette and served coffee from the province of Chiriqui, home of the most expensive coffee in the world that hasn’t passed through the gastrointestenal tract of a wild feline. (Look up “civet cat coffee”, yeah, no shit.) We had some veal sausages and tortillas. In Panama a tortilla is a three inch by 3/8” deep fried ground corn pastry. We also ordered Omadilla a deep fried white flour pastry. The tab came to $8, I slipped a tenner under the plate and we headed out.

A short while later I was dropped off at the bridge which connects Changuinola, Panama to Sixaola, Costa Rica. I stopped by the pre-immigration office, paid my $3 exit tax, then when to immigration and got my exit stamp. The walk across the bridge was a mundane experience. Twenty one months prior it seemed a strange and unusual thing to walk across an ill kept wooden bridge between two countries. Now it seemed more natural than trying to buy cauliflower.

Arriving at the Costa Rican side, I stopped by immigration. I was handed a form, filled it out and submitted it with my passport and was asked for my airline ticket out of the country. I was forging one the other day, modifying a heavily marked up Travelocity html email confirmation that nearly put open office into a death spin. I told the woman that I lived in Bocas and that I was going to buy a boat ticket from Puerto Viejo to Bocas del Toro once I got to Puerto Viejo. She was having none of it. So I walked down the road to the pharmacy (first building on the left) and bought a bus ticket. I had a choice, I could buy a ticket from San Jose to Changuinola or not. No other options were available. For $12.80 I bought one, returned to immigration, presented the ticket and passport, the latter was quickly stamped and returned to me.

My plan was to take a shuttle from Puerto Viejo to Fortuna. The price of a taxi from Sixaola to Puerto Viejo was ostensibly 20,000 colones, about $10. The taxi driver offered to take me to Puerto Viejo for $35. I told him I would look for a collectivo, he denied that they existed. I returned to the pharmacy and attempted to buy a bus ticket to Fortuna, but was informed that the only tickets they sold were from San Jose to Sixaola. “Yo necessito comprar billete pora bus hasta Fortuna. Donde tengo?” She directed me across the street. The chino across the street didn’t sell bus tickets but pointed me next door. I entered the hardware store, but they were baffled too and suggested the bus around the corner. If you ever find your self in the same situation it’s the first road on the right after you cross the bridge.

I approached the ticket counter. My choice of destinations was Limon or San Jose, Puerto Viejo was not an option. San Jose $12, clock back an hour bus leaves at 10.

Impelled by an imperious necessity, a compelling nervous expression of my bowels, for a near immediate riddance of something found suddenly offensive, the tacos I consumed last night, prepared at home by yours truly with plenty of hot sauce, I sought appropriate accommodations for the requisite task. Spying a bano publico (public bathroom) I walked over to the soda (typical food outdoor cafe) and made inquiries. The cost was 95 colones, I proffered a quarter and the woman provided me with enough toilet paper to cover the walls of the room. There was no sign, but I put the used paper in the bin next to the toilet. The sink outside had a one liter water bottle with a strong concentration of lysol for washing one’s hands. No towels,of course.

As I walked out I was greeted by Skip, the floating house builder, on his way to San Jose to close on a sale. “Skip, I never got your articles of incorporation, your corporation is not listed on the Panamanian online registry, I never got a copy of your approved concession. Did you finish making the modifications to my house that we discussed?” “Here, Jim, want a drink?” I looked at the canned rum and coke and declined. Shortly thereafter a bus pulled in a people started to board. I checked the time then the destination on the front of the Mepe bus. We boarded, I got current on today’s blog entry, opened the window for fresh air and we departed at ten exactly.

11:45 Pulled into station my freakin’ neck. What the hell happened? I had fallen asleep and head had flopped over to the right, straining my neck muscles. A dutch girl took a seat next me. I put my daypack on my lap. “Que este nombre aqui?” “Cuhuita.” Shit, still on the Caribbean. Back to nodding off and I have to exhausted to sleep on a bus.

12;45 We pulled into a terminal, a sweater lies on the vacant seat behind me. I grabbed and ran over to the steel gates and holding the sweater between the bars yelled, “Chica Nederlander, su ropa!” n She turned around, came over to me and said, “Thanks, can you put it back on the seat, oh, I’ll take it!” We were at a cafeteria, this was just a stop. I entered and looked at the food and deemed none of it worthy of consumption and bought some junk, an tajaditas de platanc on chicarron del rancho, an ice cream, and a 1750 ml water. Tres mill tre ciente. Three thousand three hundred colones? I have here 7 dollars and got 200 colones back. Was this a screw job or has the dollar weakened that much? Nice homework, peckerhead.

The fried plantains were thin and extra crispy, the pork rinds very scarce. This was truly a bag of evil stuff.

3:30 Finally cold and wet pulled into the terminal in San Jose. A taxi driver informed me that the bus to Fortuna left from another terminal. This much I already knew. The fact that there were no more today was news to me. He offered to drive me for 75,000 colones. Hell, that gets me there in three hours, what else am I going to do, rent a hotel room in San Jose? Inside the terminal was an internet cafe. Some computer from the archives of hell booted for ten minutes, then took another five minutes to bring up an instance of Chrome. I fired off an email to my friends that I am to meet in Fortuna, bought some more poison and headed out front. The taxi driver gladly accepted the chocolate covered ice cream bar I gave him. “Su llama”. “I am George.” “Jorge mi nombre Jaime, but you can all me Jim.” Off to his little Hundai, through the rain and mist. Onward through the fog!

I tried to find some comfort in the back seat in a semi-recumbent position but found little. Finally I asked the driver to stop, got into the front seat and put it in full recline and achieved some rest. When we arrived in Fortuna, he had no idea where the Aparthotel at which I was staying was located. I quickly gathered my bearings and gave him directions. As we pulled into the drive I was warmly greeted by Ruth and Rudy. I returned to the taxi to pay my fare and on returning saw no evidence of my possession. Upon inquiry as to their whereabouts, Ruth, pointed. I ascended the circular stairs to find shelves with neatly folded clothes, none of them mine. With a quizzical look on my face she indicated that she had been pointing to room seven, my former quarters. I guess I should have known that the “through the walls” was implicit in her gesture.

Rudy invited me to go fishing on Saturday. I hadn’t intended to stay that long. I caught a cab to Las Lagos, where Richard and Maggie are staying. A six kilometer fare came to 4,800 colones, almost $10 and about five times what I would pay for a similar trip in Panama.

We pulled into the entrance and I entered the lobby inquiring for directions to the bar, our agreed upon meeting location. I was informed that it was dark and not very straight forward and a man was summoned to guide me there. I had stayed at this lovely resort sixteen years earlier with my two boys, then five and seven. We looked at the bar, the poolside bar, the bar in the restaurant, called their room, made another pass of same and finally got a shuttle to their room where I talked with Maggie’s son Alex, whom I hadn’t seen in 15 years, now a fine strapping young man and met Cole, a joint effort, now about six. Oh well, there is always tomorrow.

I gave up and took a taxi back stopping at Garrapata for dinner. In my old blog I had a pretty funny story about that but in never made it from WordPress to blogspot. Oh well. The owner recognized me and we engaged in friendly banter. Tilipia was served ten different ways, none of the descriptions being helpful. “Tilipia Ballerina”. Garrapata informed me that this was a humorous menu. Some clue as to the sauces would have been more appreciated. I ordered Tilipia Marisco which was served with a cream and white wine sauce with shrimp a faux scallops, faux crab and faux calimari then walked back to my lodgings.

No word from the attorney on the house.

On another deal the promised paper work didn’t come.

The inspectors never wrote back to tell me when they could perform the inspections.

Screw it. I’m heading out to Fortuna, Costa Rica tomorrow.

Hopefully by the time I get back, somebody will have gotten his shit together.