This week's piece is by Trey Erwin, a former language teacher who now works in communications. His work has appeared in The Lowestoft Chronicle, Gargoyle Magazine Online, LA Family Travel, and TravelBinger. (@treycerwin) This is the third piece from our open submissions call. All words are his.
I save fifty dollars by not taking the private bus from the San José airport, which all the tourists who can’t speak Spanish think is their only option. Instead, I catch an intercity bus to La Fortuna, where I’m headed for the rainforest.
I take a seat. The upholstery is unstained, the legroom ample, and there’s even air conditioning. The bus is not half full when we pull away. All are locals except for me and maybe one or two other travelers who know what they’re doing. No bloggers or honeymooners in sight. I can’t hide a smug grin thinking about those gullible saps getting ripped off back at international arrivals.
Raindrops patter on the window. The steady rhythm reminds me of waves breaking on the Pacific shores of Nicaragua, where I’ve just spent two weeks. I retreated to a quiet beach town unlisted in the guidebook, avoiding the predictable crowd of unwashed gap years battling for the hostel beer pong title. I place my backpack on the shelf above me, pop in my earbuds, and close my eyes.
Something like an hour has passed when I wake. Every seat is now taken, including the one next to me. People are even standing in the aisle. We must have made stops along the way.
I go for my backpack, but can’t seem to reach it. Grumbling, I unbuckle and stand up. There are a few duffels and frayed packs on the shelf, but mine isn’t among them. I beg the pardon of the standing passengers as I squeeze by, searching. Maybe it slid down on these mountain switchbacks. I reach the last row, but still no sign of it. I pace the aisle again.
No, this can’t be happening, I argue with myself. I’m a seasoned traveler. I’ve walked through slums in Rio and sipped tea with armed communists in the Himalayas. I once talked my way out of a citation in Germany, of all places! And anyway, doesn’t Costa Rica have a reputation for being safer than its neighbors?
Other passengers begin to take notice. I ask if they’ve seen a gray Totto backpack. They haven’t. Someone inquires about the contents—wallet, cash, cards, passport, a pair of shoes, and a watch my brother gave me. Everyone winces when I mention the passport, but it’s losing the watch that guts me most.
The driver pulls over for a smoke break. His hair is slicked back, the edge of his collar yellowed. I step out and give an account. He likes my Spanish. He can tell I’ve spent time in this part of the world. “So, you put your bag out of sight and dozed off?” It’s more of an accusation than a question. I ask about the security camera. “It doesn’t work,” he says and takes a long drag from his cigarette. He offers me one, and I almost accept.
“So, you put your bag out of sight and dozed off?”
Back on board, the woman sitting next to me can’t resist offering some belated advice, saying I should have held my bag in my lap. I tell her that a Colombian taught me an expression for this sort of thing: No das papaya. It has nothing to do with the fruit —more like, don’t make it easy for them. She likes the saying and asks if I’ve spent much time in Latin America. I have.
“You’ve traveled a lot,” she says.
Why, yes. I am quite seasoned.
The bus pulls into the station at La Fortuna. A guy from Florida hands me a folded twenty-dollar bill and wishes me luck. I don’t know what annoys me more —that I am now a charity case or that another gringo beat me at my own game.
I find the police station and file a report. I know I’ll never see my bag again, but it feels like the right thing to do. When the officer learns I was napping while my bag sat unattended, she gives me a punitive stare. “Why didn’t you take the private bus —the one with no stops?” she asks. “That’s what all the tourists do.” Ah, but you see, I’m not a tourist. I’m a seasoned traveler.
She allows me a turn on one of the station’s computers. I cancel my bank cards and send an email to my mother requesting a wire so I can return to San José, replace my passport, and catch the first flight out. The transfer will take at least a day, and tomorrow is Sunday.
“Do you have a place to stay?” asks the officer.
“I have a reservation.” It hasn’t been paid yet.
She offers me a ride. It’s not far, but I accept because it’s still raining. We pass a small church on the way. The design is modern, unlike most in the central plazas of the old Spanish Empire. I feel like entering and begging Saint Anthony of Padua for a miracle. Behind the church, green mountains rise, with their tops hidden in thick cloud cover. I imagine the cascades and thermal springs, the howler monkeys and poison dart frogs.
We pull up to a cottage with a wooden sign above the door that reads Guest House. A middle-aged woman with blonde highlights opens the door. I search her eyes for traces of goodwill. Her mercy is the only thing between me and the streets tonight. Her expression is hard to read.
She invites me to the kitchen table. I explain that my bag was snatched on the bus, that I’ve no means to pay at the moment, but promise to arrange a wire transfer. This time, I leave out the bits about stowing the bag out of sight and the nap.
I’m a seasoned traveler, after all.
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Loved this collab! :)
Excellent piece! Really, a stolen bag is a small price to pay for the absence of influencers 😎