About 3 weeks into my trip I was on my last day in Costa Rica, and had decided to find a hostel that Lonely Planet highly recommended, in a small town called Golfito, on the Pacific coast about 40 miles west of the Panama border.
Until only a few days before I had had nothing but good weather, but then the rain arrived. Proper 'rainy season' rain, lashing down at unbelievable rates, and coming on like someone had thrown a switch. Often stopping the same, abrupt way.
Anyway, about an hour outside Golfito the rain started. I had seen the dark grey clouds for the last hour or so and had been hoping to beat them to my destination, but that was not going to happen today. The first few drops fell heavy and determined. I was on a lonely stretch of highway in the jungle, with 'bus stops' every few miles (basically an open 4 posted space with a plank bench and a tin roof) and having seen other motorcyclist do the same over the last few days, I rode my bike into the first (empty) one I found. I got off the bike and sat on the bench just as the heavens opened, and I sat and took in the spectacle, visual and audio.
My hopes that it would be a quick shower soon faded, so I donned my waterproofs, cinched up my jacket, and ventured out into the deluge. For the next hour the rain faded and intentsified many times, but by the time I got to the small waterfront town it was at a sprinkle.
Now to find the hostel, 'Hostel del Mar'.
The address was a street number on 'Kilometer 7' on the road - except that I could not see any 'Kilometer' markings. I rode slowly through the town, annoying the traffic around me, as I searched. I went through the town once, and came back again. Nothing. I asked a taxi driver. Never heard of that hostel, but 'Kilometer 7' was that way - pointing to the beginning of the town, where I had first entered.
As I got to the end of town I saw there was a dirt road splitting off and following the coast, with a hotel on the junction of the split. But not my hotel. Trying my luck I took the dirt road, and found myself in a favela, with tin roofed shacks lining the shore side of the dirt road, and a few run down houses the water side. Things seemed to deteriorate quickly after 1/2 mile of this so I thought a hostel would not be down here. Surely.
Of course I was wrong. I did a U-turn then shamelessly stopped at the hotel on the junction and asked after the hostel. They didn't really know, but there was maybe one down the dirt road. This one? Yes. OK, I'll try again.
Emboldened, I rode back down, eliciting a lot of interest from the inhabitants who I was now passing for the third time. About 100 yards further down than my u-turn point I saw a grand whitewashed building built 3 sides into the bay, and a discete sign. Hostel del Mar. Great.
Cold, wet and tired, and glad to be at my destination I looked for a way in. There was a grill gate with an open door behind. No buzzer, knocker or door bell in sight, so I called out 'Hola'. Nothing. I tried again, nothing. Mmm. I looked at the sign. Yes, this was at least A hostel, so I peered through the grill and this time saw someone with their back to me in the very front of the building, perhaps 75 feet away in a room on the other side of a long corridor that led to the grill. I called again. No response, so I ratchted it up louder and louder, till I was hollering, or rather 'Hola-ing' as loud as I could.
Suddenly I saw a lady in her 60's appear at the far end of the corrider. She looked at me strangely, and I explained that if this was a hostel, could I come in and have a bed for the night if available. She cautiously approached, and yes it was the right hostel, and yes they had a bed. Nice.
With this, she let me in, just as she was joined by a young man, who also greeted me cautiously.
She started to book me in then froze when she saw my passport photo page, and urgently conferred with the young man, and a second, middle aged man who had just turned up from the depths of the hostel.
Was my name Matthew? Er, yes.
Was I American? Er, short-answer, yes.
These answers seemed to cause pandermonium. The lady looked scared and gabbled something to her colleuges, who looked me over warily.
Had I ever stayed here before, especially recently?
Er, no, I have been on the road coming down from San Diego, pretty much a different town every night and this was my first time in Golfito ....
The tension in her face sloughed away, she smiled and shook my hand and welcomed me to the hostel.
What was THAT all about I asked.
She answered: she was the owner's mother, and had been left in charge whilst her daughter and son-in-law went away for the weekend. They had warned her not to allow a drugged up previous guest access to the hostel.
Matthew, the bad American man, you guessed it!
