I can’t say what compelled me to buy a ticket to the border on a collectivo bus. I got to the station too early. The time on the ticket was approximate as the bus was on its way from San Jose, a few dozen stops in between there and here. When the bus arrived, I boarded and saw a woman snoozing in my assigned seat, so I grabbed seat number 4, directly behind the driver.
It is always an interesting place to sit. I like sitting behind the pilot on the Cessna flights over the mountains to San Jose, so I can keep my eye on the altimeter for that long couple minutes when the plane disappears completely in the clouds. As we pulled from the station and headed south, I kept one eye on the driver.
Early on, I heard him answer his cell phone and converse over speakerphone with a woman who further conversation revealed to be the mother of his child. I leaned forward in my seat as if stretching; in truth I was checking to make sure he had both hands on the wheel. His phone was in a holder, which was good.
He still had to drive briefly one handed to answer the calls that continued to come in for much of the long ride. On one call he recounted a conversation, taking on various voices like he was in acting class, all while blowing down the narrow road at 90 to 100 kph. The only time the calls ceased was when we were in a low-lying area where cell service was spotty.
But he was a good driver, as are the vast majority behind the wheels of the thousands of buses on our roads. Despite the distraction of calls and the constant stops to pick up or discharge passengers, he hugged the center line like a pro. As buses and trucks came from the other direction, the distance between us and them was so close, I could have leaned out the window and touched the passing vehicles.
Farm truck passing in the opposite lane, close enough to touch.
I realized then that I was in possibly the worst seat on the bus. Any type of head on collision would see me wrapped in a sheath of crumpled metal and jagged plastic sprinkled with shards of windshield. And when the seat next to me became vacant, it would soon be taken by the next wide-bodied passenger to board the bus.
We rolled through rural southern Costa Rica. The houses got smaller and the lots they were on got bigger. We passed cattle farms, pineapple fields, and areas where the Boruca and Terraba indigenous communities were established. There were stretches of road where it was impossible to safely pass, winding, hilly, full of blind curves. We could only go as fast as the slowest vehicle. For one half-hour stretch it was a trailer loaded down with cement blocks slowly leading the parade.
On a lonely stretch of road nearing the border, a passenger rang the driver to exit. The driver called out, “Donde Alcides?”. The passenger replied affirmatively. The driver stopped by a pulperia, presumably owned by Alcides. This was obviously the driver’s regular route, and I felt a little silly for having worried that he might be distracted earlier.
I got to my destination after a long 6 hours through one of Costa Rica’s more remote areas. On my return trip, I rode in comparative luxury on an air-conditioned directo bus, where I sat well back in the coach and slept much of the way.
Oncoming traffic leaving as much room as possible for the bus.
