Colectivos, Buses, and Hustlers

The taxis and their drivers are all waiting to intercept the Puerto Jimenez water taxi passengers before they can get to the bus stop just 40 meters away.  In Costa Rica, both the standard taxis and the colectivos (the small vans and buses in which one can travel more cheaply due to cost of the ride being split between more passengers) are painted red so that potential passengers can see them easily and so that fake taxis can be avoided.  Not wanting to miss the bus, I was quickly walking past the colectivo driver when he shouted out:        ``Frontera!``

``¿Por cuanto?`

``Forty dolares.``

I resumed my pace.

``Bueno, 5000 colones.``  (Which is the equivalent of $10)

I slowed down and repeated his offer as a question. ``5000 colones?`` He assured me that I had heard him correctly, so I handed him my heavy backpack.  He opened his trunk hatch with a screwdriver, slammed it shut 3 times, and began calling ``Frontera!`` to the most recent passengers to debark the boat.  No one joined us, so we sped away toward the border leaving the others waiting at the bus stop.

Miguel was pleasant but taciturn until we picked up other passengers, whom he called ``Mami and Papi``.  ``¡Hola, Mami!  ¿Pa`donde vas? Cierra la puerta bien dura, Mami. ¡Ay que bonita la vida!``

The colectivos and taxis communicate with passengers and other drivers by honking short bursts to announce their presence and availability.  The prospective passengers respond with a barely perceptible nod or finger movement to accept, a head-shake or look-away to decline. The taxi swerves over and stops abruptly, loads on the passenger, and continues down the road, alternately gobbling then jettisoning its human cargo.

Finally Miguel and I arrive at the border.  As I`m counting out the fare, a guy sticks an emigration paper for exiting Costa Rica into my hand, grabs my backpack, and beckons me to follow him to the window.  I fill out the form, get my passport stamped, then head to the Panamanian side to complete a similar procedure.  On the way there, he starts to run his first scam.  He stops me, says I have to have a plane ticket out of Panama to show at the Panamanian immigration window, but since I don´t have one, I can get a bus ticket at a nearby window for $21, no refunds, that will suffice.  I tell him that I´ll take my chances, and head to the Panamanian side, with him running alongside.  Once again, they stamp the passport, and I´m back in Panama.  My hustler takes me to two different bus stations, and at the second one, the colectivo is already loaded and on the way out the door, so they grab my bag and throw it in the back while I toss my hustler a $2 tip instead of his $20 request, and jump on.

I change from the colectivo to the Panama Express in the town of David, enjoying the luxury of air-conditioning, drop-down TV screens, and new, faux-velour recliner seats, leaning back for the 8 hour ride to  Panama City.  My assigned seat is in the back of the bus because once again, the bus was on the way out when I walked up.  The ride is a comfortably fast 8 hours.  In Panama City,  I leave the crowded, bustling station on foot, walking over to a nearby gas station where I stand on the corner, smiling, waiting for my couchsurfing host to pick me up for the final chapter of the trip.