Costa Rica
Bill found a place where he could pull over and stop. He and I got out of the motorhome and walked
up to the door. It was locked with a sign on it saying “Closed until 3:00.” Siesta had struck again.
We traipse back to the motorhome, fixed and ate lunch all the while muttering about siesta. Then we wandered around the harbor for a while watching the banana ships being loaded. While roaming around the town we met two men also waiting for siesta to be over. They were Maynard, a young, good looking blond who had been born in the U.S. but grew up in Sweden. With him was Pascal (yep that was his name), who was French. For the rest of the journey we called him “Frenchie.” He looked like I imagined a Frenchman would look - dark hair and eyes and a short beard. Both were slender and well dressed. They were on their way to Bolivia driving a new blue Volvo that they planned on selling there. This would be their second trip to sell a car. We talked with them a while about the road ahead and found out about a nice campground in Panama City.
About 3:30 the Official opened his office. All of us went in. He was a short pudgy older man dressed in a wrinkled tan cotton suit. He took off his jacket and his blue shirt had sweat circles under his arms. What hair he had left was kind of yellow blond and combed over his bald spot. He loosened his tie, sat down behind his big metal desk and looked at Bill - waiting for him to speak.
Bill told him we were driving to Panama and had been sent back to Golfito to get our visas. He handed over all of our passports and the paperwork for the motorhome and the motorcycle.
The official placed the papers to one side and stacked the passports neatly. He picked one up it was Gils. He thumbed through it looking at all the stamps already in it, and then he turned to the picture and studied it for a few seconds. He looked up to locate the person in the picture. We were all standing in a row watching him. When he saw Gil he nodded to himself, put the passport down and picked up the next one. As he went through all eight passports he never said a word. Just kept nodding. As he finished looking through it that passport was neatly stacked on his desk. After finishing the passports he picked up the paperwork for the vehicles - he asked Bill where they were he needed to see them. Bill opened the door and started to walk outside. The official half rose out of his chair and leaning to one side glanced out the door. Nodding he motioned to Bill to come back inside. Stamp, stamp - the paperwork for the vehicles was done.
Smiling he picked up the passports, “It will cost $5.50 for each person for a visa for Panama,” he said.
“$5.50 - Colón (Costa Rican) or Balboa (Panamanian)?” asked Bill.
“Oh no, $5.50 US,” replied the official.
“$5.50 US each? That’s a lot of money. Why does it cost so much to go to Panama? It hasn’t cost us that much for all the countries we’ve been through. What’s so special about Panama?”
The reply was, “It was after hours but if we wanted to wait until Monday at 7 a.m. it wouldn’t cost us anything.” Of course we didn’t want to wait.
“Panama is a beautiful country,” was the reply.
Now the discussion began to deteriorate rapidly. It also morphed into Spanish. The kids and I just stood there quietly hoping we would get out of there soon.
What the heck - now Disneyland was brought up. Disneyland?
Suddenly Bill turned to me and said go get the money - he wants $38.50 for the visas. I left and returned with it. Bill handed it to him; he returned our paperwork for the vehicles and very slowly stamped each passport and called the name of the person it belonged to. Each and every one of us had to walk up to his desk to get our passport.
Maynard and Pascal were coming up the walk just as we were leaving. Bill was still fuming about the price and he mentioned it to them. They nodded and said they had paid it before and the amount would change with the nationality of the person needing it. They also said they had heard he closed down every day so he could spend time with his girlfriend. Later Pascal told us it cost him $10 for his visa.
Once we were back in the motorhome I asked Bill what was said about Disneyland. He laughed and said, “Well, I was saying that the price was pretty high just to cross a border and what made Panama so expensive. He repeated that Panama was a beautiful and interesting country. And that it had the beautiful “Bridge of the Americas.” I said something like “Not that interesting.” And he replied that after all we charged $8.00 to go to Disneyland. I said there was more to do there. He said the $5 was for a whole country. He was getting mad, that’s when I sent you after the money.”
Well, I guess we were lucky to get the visas. Now we had to drive back to the Highway then to the border before it closed for the weekend. Back across the “Oh my God” bridge. We made it by 8 o’clock just before closing time. And it cost us another $16 to get OUT of Costa Rica. So far the most expensive transition from one country to another. Also lost another hour because we crossed into another time zone.
up to the door. It was locked with a sign on it saying “Closed until 3:00.” Siesta had struck again.
We traipse back to the motorhome, fixed and ate lunch all the while muttering about siesta. Then we wandered around the harbor for a while watching the banana ships being loaded. While roaming around the town we met two men also waiting for siesta to be over. They were Maynard, a young, good looking blond who had been born in the U.S. but grew up in Sweden. With him was Pascal (yep that was his name), who was French. For the rest of the journey we called him “Frenchie.” He looked like I imagined a Frenchman would look - dark hair and eyes and a short beard. Both were slender and well dressed. They were on their way to Bolivia driving a new blue Volvo that they planned on selling there. This would be their second trip to sell a car. We talked with them a while about the road ahead and found out about a nice campground in Panama City.
About 3:30 the Official opened his office. All of us went in. He was a short pudgy older man dressed in a wrinkled tan cotton suit. He took off his jacket and his blue shirt had sweat circles under his arms. What hair he had left was kind of yellow blond and combed over his bald spot. He loosened his tie, sat down behind his big metal desk and looked at Bill - waiting for him to speak.
Bill told him we were driving to Panama and had been sent back to Golfito to get our visas. He handed over all of our passports and the paperwork for the motorhome and the motorcycle.
The official placed the papers to one side and stacked the passports neatly. He picked one up it was Gils. He thumbed through it looking at all the stamps already in it, and then he turned to the picture and studied it for a few seconds. He looked up to locate the person in the picture. We were all standing in a row watching him. When he saw Gil he nodded to himself, put the passport down and picked up the next one. As he went through all eight passports he never said a word. Just kept nodding. As he finished looking through it that passport was neatly stacked on his desk. After finishing the passports he picked up the paperwork for the vehicles - he asked Bill where they were he needed to see them. Bill opened the door and started to walk outside. The official half rose out of his chair and leaning to one side glanced out the door. Nodding he motioned to Bill to come back inside. Stamp, stamp - the paperwork for the vehicles was done.
Smiling he picked up the passports, “It will cost $5.50 for each person for a visa for Panama,” he said.
“$5.50 - Colón (Costa Rican) or Balboa (Panamanian)?” asked Bill.
“Oh no, $5.50 US,” replied the official.
“$5.50 US each? That’s a lot of money. Why does it cost so much to go to Panama? It hasn’t cost us that much for all the countries we’ve been through. What’s so special about Panama?”
The reply was, “It was after hours but if we wanted to wait until Monday at 7 a.m. it wouldn’t cost us anything.” Of course we didn’t want to wait.
“Panama is a beautiful country,” was the reply.
Now the discussion began to deteriorate rapidly. It also morphed into Spanish. The kids and I just stood there quietly hoping we would get out of there soon.
What the heck - now Disneyland was brought up. Disneyland?
Suddenly Bill turned to me and said go get the money - he wants $38.50 for the visas. I left and returned with it. Bill handed it to him; he returned our paperwork for the vehicles and very slowly stamped each passport and called the name of the person it belonged to. Each and every one of us had to walk up to his desk to get our passport.
Maynard and Pascal were coming up the walk just as we were leaving. Bill was still fuming about the price and he mentioned it to them. They nodded and said they had paid it before and the amount would change with the nationality of the person needing it. They also said they had heard he closed down every day so he could spend time with his girlfriend. Later Pascal told us it cost him $10 for his visa.
Once we were back in the motorhome I asked Bill what was said about Disneyland. He laughed and said, “Well, I was saying that the price was pretty high just to cross a border and what made Panama so expensive. He repeated that Panama was a beautiful and interesting country. And that it had the beautiful “Bridge of the Americas.” I said something like “Not that interesting.” And he replied that after all we charged $8.00 to go to Disneyland. I said there was more to do there. He said the $5 was for a whole country. He was getting mad, that’s when I sent you after the money.”
Well, I guess we were lucky to get the visas. Now we had to drive back to the Highway then to the border before it closed for the weekend. Back across the “Oh my God” bridge. We made it by 8 o’clock just before closing time. And it cost us another $16 to get OUT of Costa Rica. So far the most expensive transition from one country to another. Also lost another hour because we crossed into another time zone.
Saga of Gulfito
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