Numero 8- ' Glorious mistakes are anxiously waiting to be made...'

Would he have thought as he crossed into Costa Rica on that Sunday morning, that 3 weeks later he'd still be there. How & when did it all get so messed up, so fucking messed up. He felt like a scene out of one of his favourite movies, 'In Bruge'. Colin Farrell's character gets stuck in the small Belgium town, not out of choice. 'And i'm still in fookin Bruge!' It all started so promising when he reached Tamorindo on the Northern Pacific coast. The town itself he found hard to define. Not a classic surfer town, not a holiday resort town. Amongst all the glitzy Hotels & over-priced shops, there where shitty roads & even shittier hostels. For some odd reason, he choose on of those hostels. That's where it all started. 'Coral Reef' seemed pleasant enough on the outside, after 3 days in which he had his phone, camera, clothes & even his peanut butter & mosquito spray stolen, pleasant was the last word he would think of using to describe hostel 'Coral Reef'. He had decided to go out one night & foolishly thought, since he was the only one in the dorm, he would leave his phone in his bag. The bag that wasn't locked up. He had done it loads of times on the trip thus far without hassle. Who would steal from a fellow traveller. Everything he has with him he has because he needs it. Who would steal from a fellow traveller. He wouldn't. Returning back a few hours later, his worst nightmare would be waiting. Every travellers worst nightmare. Knowing that someone had rummaged through you most valuable possessions. Hard to think of anything worse. The feeling was even more worse, since only certain things where taken, the rest left in peace. Knowing thus, that the bastard had meticulously gone through his goods, taking his time to pick & choose what he wants & what he doesn't. It was enough to boil the blood & turn his stomach in equal measures. His vision of what was around was perminantly impaired. He had to keep moving. And when the opportunity arouse to go all the way to Panama, he took it. He knew he would miss out on an entire country, but it was perminantly impaired. Little did he know what was waiting. Months earlier during his preparation he had been informed that his countries visa laws with Panama had changed. It was a welcome surprise. He would save money. How that delight would turn into anger once he got to the border. The border crossing at Sioxaola was straight out of a movie scene. Rickety bridge, liquorice men (all sorts of men) & dodge officials all waited. The bridge, 150 meters in length, held together by a combination of rusted steel & loose wooden beams, would become a walk he would do way to often. As has been the norm, the sweat trickled down his back. On reaching immigration, the normal documents were filled in promptly. Name, surname, country, occupation & profession. He had seen it all before. There would be a twist though. 'No paise.' Was a response he hadn't heard before. 'Como?' 'No paise, senor. No visa, no paise.' This was indeed a shitfuck moment. The trickle had become a shower. He tried to explain that the rule had changed. 'Senor! No visa no paise'. 'Shitfuck! The computer system that had never seen someone from his country before was thus not updated. The light was fading as fast as what his temper was shortening. Puerto Viejo was a beach town an hour down the road. He would lose this battle he thought, but the war would continue in the morning. He had heard about 'Rocking J's' from a host of different vagabonds. The hostel had the option of sleeping in hammocks for 5 bucks. He was sold. '5 bucks, hell yea!' The property was bigger than any other hostel he'd seen before. Maybe the vision wasn't perminantly impaired after all. The rain poored. It was personally refreshing for him. With his temper boiling, the Caribean rains was much needed. The staff were friendly & helpfull. The other occupants were not much bother. His temper was cooling with the continued rains, but he wasn't yet ready for small talk. His stay in Puerto Viejo would be short, he needed to get back to San Jose to sort his problem out. Flying was not an option. Going back was not an option. Back he went to San Jose. He thought that maybe the travelling Gods were conspiring against him as his arrival in S.J was over a long weekend meaning embassies would be shut. As had been his philosophy, 'accept, ignore, work through & move on.' He was moving on. Sometimes things happen for a reason. His stay in S.J coincided with a Shakira concert. He bought a ticket from some scalpers for 15 bucks. He had also bumped into some mates from his adventure in Ometepe a few days earlier. She was heading home in 2 days. One last party was appropriate, one last time with feeling. Never having been a big fan of 'hips don't lie' Shakira, he was blown away by her performance. She even did a cover of 'Nothing else matters' by Metallica. Who would have thought. Lars & the boys would've been proud. With 'Waka Waka' fresh in mind he headed off to the embassy the following day. They were as shocked as he was by the border immigrations refusal to allow him in. 'If you have problems, here's all the contact details you will need.' With renewed optimism, he headed back south. Round 2. Arriving at 'Check Point Charlie,' the looks from the Costa Rican official's told a story which he should off read. He wasn't in the reading mood. You should always make time for reading.

                                                                  Bridge over troubled waters

Once more he took the walk over to Panama. He had built up a familiarity with the custom officials & the various other 'liquorice men' who milled around the crossing. Arriving at the immigration window, the words that he had come to despise was uttered again. 'The computer say's no.' He felt like Phil Connors now, Bill Murray's character in 'Groundhog Day.' Sioxaola had become his Punxsutawney. He has contact details though. That surely would be his saving grace. Amazingly he got through to immigration head office. Maybe he was not Phil after all. The official told the officer at the border post no visa was required anymore. His smile was short lived. 'The computer say's no. No paise senor.' 'Hi my name is  Phil Connors.' The other antogonist in the peace was about to enter stage left. While his frustration was falling on deaf ears, the night had slowly closed in. With desperation etched on his face he made his ways back to the Costa Rican post. He should have read that story earlier. 'No paise senor'.

                                                                    
Was this really happening. Was this really happening AGAIN. All the nightmare's he had had about Central American border crossings had become a reality. 'You cannot pass. Go back to Panama, NOW !' How could he, did they really think he was enjoying this. Any further attempts at pleading his case was extinguished as the burly army guard with rusty assault rifle was summoned over to escort him over to Panama. He had literally become a man with no country. He had become the urban myth, the story of the guy stuck on a bridge between 2 countries. All the time the other antagonist had taken position front & center on stage. The sun was a thing of the past. With it's disappearance, the darkness had settled in. A weird sense of calm had suddenly flowed over him. The realisation that his current situation was inevitable, he consigned himself to the fact that he would be sleeping on a bridge. Sleeping on FUCKING bridge. It was really happening. Even in this moment he could find the time to smile. 'It could always be worse,' he thought. As he settled in for the night, a voice. 'What's the problem my maan.' The voice was laden thick with an unquestionable Jamaican slang. 'You need help my maan.' His situation, crawled up on a bridge trying to battle away the swarms of mosquito's & other nameless invaders, answered that question. Elias, was the name behind the voice. His Jamaican voice was accompanied by a raggedy head of dreads that were slowly falling out. The missing top front teeth & child like physique, masked the fact that he had been around for many more summers than his appearance let on. After a few words with the burly gun welding guard he was allowed back into C.R.
So with little more than a passing strangers word, he set off to find solitude in Sioxaola. He had done what so many before had done & so many more would do. He entered a country illegally. The night was filled with various thoughts & even self doubt about his current situation & undertaking. 'What am I doing?' With the rising sun, as with so many times before, his mood rose. Excited by new adventures that were waiting to be taken on. After many hours of negotiating between the various parties; Panamanian immigration, Costa Rican immigration & himself, they finally allowed him back into C.R. Legally this time. Back to Puerto Viejo, yet again. Something had to be done. One last desperate S.O.S was sent out to the Consulate General of Panama. 'Please sir. All I ask of you is an official letter stating that relations between our respective countries had changed & that I thus no longer require a visa to enter your country. Regards.' He didn't hold out much hope, so decided to enjoy his stay at Rocking J's. Indulge. By indulging in his surrounds, he became overly familiar with the owner of Rocking J's. He discovered in his time there, that 'J' enjoyed the company of young tourist girls. Never having been a prude, he didn't mind that one bit. Not even the the fact that the said young girls where just that, 'girls.' J on the other hand had been to the rodeo a few times. What was of a bigger concern was how he managed to lure the girls up to his 'house on the hill.' He used his own girlfriend, who herself had just been out of diapers when 'J' was probably starting up his hostel. She would use the old line of 'come up for free drinks.' That old one still works apparently. If that didn't work, a night of free punch definitely would. Some would get caught, the others unfortunately would be collateral damage. 'J' also believed that a tsunami was close by and thus decided to build an ark. Enough said. 3 days into his stay something strange happened. Like being stuck on the open ocean with no wind. The feeling of being totally reliant on factors out of your control. Then suddenly the wind changes & your sails are stiffened with life & renewed hope. His sails had just been stiffened. The letter he had so long dreamt of had arrived. 'SUCCESS'. He would take advantage of the wind. 'Once more into the breach,' he thought. Arriving for the third time at the border post he was greeted by one & all with a familiarity that bemused & confused all the other traveller's that were making the crossing. 'If they only knew.' With letter in hand, he made his was across the bridge. It would be his last such trip. The letter had done the job. His face was devoid of any emotions. He just couldn't muster any. It had all seemed like such a horrible dream & now on just another ordinary Wednesday morning, it was all over. A taxi pulled up. 'Where you wanna go my maan.' 'Just get me out of this fucking border.' 'Bocas Del Toro for you then me brother.' 'Bocas Del Toro indeed.'

                                                             Bocas Del Toro. #SUCCESS
 Until that day.......