Location:
South East Costa Rica
Destination:
San Jose, Costa Rica
I checked my back pocket, I
checked the front pocket of my backpack then shoved my hands inside all
five-pocket jeans for the third time—it’s not there, my passport! I emerged
from the back seat of the bus and yelled, “Para el autobús!” Stop the bus!
Panic set in, my mind
raced, where? Where could it be and why? Why now? After being careful for 60
days and guarding my passport like a Giga pet. How could I lose it the day
before my flight back to Los Angeles?
“It must’ve fallen out of
my back pocket at our last bathroom stop,” I told the chauffer. Our last
bathroom stop wasn’t far, just a couple of miles from the border town Paso
Canoas.
The chauffer looked empathetic
but really—standing in front of a bus with more than 30 passengers—what could
he do? Back track? Of course not! Instead, he suggested that I go to the US
embassy in San Jose to report that my passport got lost. But I was optimistic and
wanted to run back to the tiny, smelly, narrow bathroom stall. My passport was
probably lying behind a toilet soaked in urine but I didn’t care! When I told
the chauffer to drop me off, the passengers began to whisper among themselves. I
felt a petite woman stare up at me, when I caught her gaze her chin tilted and
her eyebrows burrowed against her forehead. She kissed her daughter.
The chauffer refunded half
my bus fare and dropped me off on the most desolated turf of the Pan-American
Highway. He wished me luck and told me to be careful.
I ditched the bus and the
first thing I did was that I stood in place with my hands planted on my hips. I
stared at the cows grazing in the meadow in front of me. I stared at them for a
good five minutes and created a mantra: Cows graze in the south, trees grow in
the north; forget where you are and you may be toast.
I recited this a few times
and began to walk east and rose my thumb out whenever I saw a car, a truck or
another bus heading east. It didn’t take long before two big sturdy men stopped
in their red pickup truck.
¿A donde vas?
I said, “I’m going to the
nearest bathroom stop, it’s on route to Paso Canoas.”
The driver gestured me to
hop onto the truck bed and I did.
I’m sure that it was a
scenic ride. The weather was already humid and warm so having the wind rush
against my face was a gift and I would’ve enjoyed it had it not been for my
passport.
A thousand what ifs ran
through my mind. What if someone finds my passport and sells it? Passports can
be worth a fortune. I met a couple from Montana who extended their vacation after
they had sold their passports for a few hundred dollars.
What if I don’t find it at
all? Oh the horror! I met a woman in Tegucigalpa, Honduras who couldn’t leave
the country for two weeks because she had lost her passport. Two weeks? I had
to be in New Zealand in five days! At least that woman xeroxed her passport, I
didn’t. It’s the first rule in the book: make copies of your passport and
important documents or better yet, scan them and email them to yourself that
way you won’t have to rely on holding it in your backpack which itself can be
lost or stolen.
I tried to enjoy the ride
for a minute, I tried to focus on the cows grazing the meadow, and I tried to
live the present by feeling my hair unravel from my sticky, greasy forehead.
But unlike other times where I had found myself in similar situations that felt
impulsive, risky and euphorically brazen, all I could think about in that very
moment was my passport.
It wasn’t the first time
that I hitchhiked but it was the first time that I hitchhiked alone. I was
sitting on the truck bed with four crates of hens: one crate per hen. They
looked so happy that even PETA would have nothing to protest about. No wonder chicken
taste good in Costa Rica (or anywhere else but the US for that matter), those
hens were enjoying a bountiful release of endorphins before going into the
fryer.
After 20 or 30 some
minutes, the red pick truck stopped next to a restroom to let me out. I thanked
the guy and offered him a tip but he waived it off and pulled away.
I made a pact with God and
it went like this: If someone finds my passport I will reward this person with
$5 which, in Costa Rica is really like $10 or $12. I’ll probably read this
journal years later and call myself a tacaña, a stingy goat. But Jane, you
didn’t have enough cash left in your hands, you still had to buy another bus
ticket and you hadn’t seen an ATM for miles.
I ran into the tiny,
smelly, narrow bathroom stall and nothing! I walked back out feeling
lightheaded. The stumpy lady who had been passing out wads of toilet paper for
change asked me what happened, I said, “Mi passaporte!”
The lady said: ¿Oh erés
Ha-ne?
Are you Ha-ne?*
She pronounced my English name in Spanish by replacing the English "j" sound with Spanish which sounds like "ha". Then, she drew out a flimsy, navy
blue passport and pointed to my name. It was me alright and I threw my arms
around her. Sí, sí, sí! Ay dios mío. Someone found my passport!
Gracias, mil gracias
señora. I said, “A thousand thanks!" I was so happy that I wanted to cry. I
reached for the five dollars which I had ready in my back pocket. I offered it
to her but she genuinely did not want to accept it, yet, I hugged one of her
hands between both of my palms and told her about my deal with God. She would
have to accept it and with that, I placed the small note in her hand.
—Bueno, como usted mande—she said. If you say so.
I then asked her about the
chances of me getting a ride to San Jose and she looked past me at the long
white bus pulling in. Everybody immediately swarmed to the bus like a colony of
red ants. The lady answered my question and said:
—Es muy difícil a ésta hora—
It’s very hard.
