Storytime with Rob: Costa Rica Edition, Chapter 2

We now rejoin our hero, whose hubris led him to a secluded “locals only” hot spring in the jungle near La Fortuna, Costa Rica in this follow up to our first installment.

Refreshed, I climbed out of the pool and returned to where I’d left my bag. GONE.
Immediately, a shiver rushed through my body. My shoulders dropped, my stomach twisted into a knot. I recalled the contents of the bag, which was basically all the most valuable and difficult to replace items I had brought on the trip. Keys, phone, camera, passport, wallet. I had left it all unattended, for no reason, other, than I was having way too much fun on vacation, and forgot that shitty people still existed.
I searched desperately with my flashlight, to see if I somehow put it somewhere else, the way you check the same drawer three times looking for your phone charger that is STILL not in there. No luck.

I walked out of the jungle and across the street to a resort hotel. A hotel that also had hot springs, where I could have relaxed with less consequence. But not for this Gringo. I wanted the “authentic experience”.
Shoeless, shirtless, a rental truck I couldn't drive, and the equivalent to about $2.50, I walked in the lobby and asked for help in my 3-years-of-highschool-Spanish Spanish. The concierge gave me the “you poor bastard” look and called the police.
I waited. And waited. An hour later, I asked him if he would please call the police again. “They are ‘dealing with an issue in town’, and can’t come tonight”, he told me. I was instructed to place a report the next day with the Policia Turistica. The Tourism Police. Events didn’t seem to be unraveling in my favor.

It is now 10pm and I am still several miles from the hostel with no truck keys. Earlier I had called the rental car company (Hertz), and informed them of my situation. They said they'd be happy to bring me a replacement set of keys the next morning, but it was too late to do so tonight. The concierge was ready to head home for the evening, but not wanting to leave me stranded, called a taxi driver friend who agreed to drive me back to the hostel, for free.

Fortunately, I had left one valuable in my bag at the hostel. My laptop. At least I wasn’t completely alone, as the hostel had wifi. I made a post on Facebook about what happened, and the hopelessness of my situation (no money, no passport, no cards) partially to see if someone could help, mostly to make a joke about it, and let’s be honest, because it’s Facebook: I might as well get some ‘likes’ out of all this.

I received several replies: The first from an old boss whose vague descriptions of his military service was the source for much speculation among the employees that he was some kind of “secret agent”. Validating these wild suspicions, he knew a "fixer" in Costa Rica, who could help. “But he will want to get paid", he wrote. “Better save that as a last resort,” I thought.
Another response came in from one of my oldest childhood friends, who, incidentally, worked for the State Dept. He offered to wire me some money, which I gratefully accepted.
The next day, I needed to file a police report, and find a Western Union. Then, I could figure out how to replace my passport, so I could catch my flight home in 4 days.

A helpful representative of Hertz picked me up at the hostel the next morning around 8 in an identical SUV. He’d driven about 3.5 hours to reach me. After taxiing me back to the scene of the crime, he hopped in “my” truck and left the keys with the newly cleaned one he’d driven up (and filled with gas) that morning.
I had NOT expected this level of assistance. I was humbled even further when they informed me that there was no charge.

I arrived at the Policia Turistica station and met a young, smiley officer who informed me, excitedly and proudly, that she was studying English, and was looking forward to practicing with me.
“Can we get my stuff back?” I asked.

“No, probably not. Sorry.”

I gave my report, in my best "I took 3 years of Spanish in high school" Spanish. Shout out to Sras. Beasley and Cermack of Mt. Pleasant Community High School. She slammed the stamp down with a loud “thud” and emblazoned it with a very official looking seal, and handed it to me. She kept a copy, which I expect was just to give me a false sense of relief that they actually had any intention of looking into this. I asked again if they thought they would be able to find my items, and offering what suggestions I could think of, like checking pawn shops, or maybe bringing in one of their confidential informants, and finding out what the word on the street. I watch too many movies, I know. “No, sorry.” she said, while no doubt thinking “I’m speaking English very well” despite offering no real assistance, just as I had been thinking “I am speaking Spanish very well” while not offering any really valuable information to their “investigation.”

Next came the Turistica part of the experience. The uniformed peace officer fanned out about six different travel brochures on the desk. "Here are some important places to see in La Fortuna". I had just lost all my cash, credit cards, identification mind you, but hey, I’m still on vacation. . .
I was stunned. "I don't want any of this," I said.
Unfazed, she replied, "No, es importante!" and pushed them back across the table. I shook my head and took the brochures and threw them in the trash can outside the station, with the suspicion they would later be consolidated into in the same garbage bag as my police report.

Next, I sought out a Western Union, which according to Google was inside a local grocery store. My buddy had wired some much needed $, so I just needed to get there to pick it up. I walked all over that grocery store, and there was no Western Union inside, outside, nor anywhere within a 2 block radius. I asked around, and there was not, nor had there ever been a Western Union in that store, or the town for that matter. I would have to drive about 50 miles round trip to the nearest one.

I knew the next day I would have to drive to the American Consulate in San Jose, which was over 3 hours away. I had no money for gas. My fear was that if something went wrong with the money transfer (I’d never received one before) that I wouldn’t have enough fuel to get my passport.
Penniless and undocumented, I would be stranded in Costa Rica indefinitely, forced to forage delicious fruit to survive, while surfing away my remaining days in a tropical prison.
No, I must return to Long Island, secure a high paying corporate job, requiring me to sit in a car for 2 hours a day. I must return to freedom.

I looked up the mpg on the rental SUV and after some calculations about as advanced as my Spanish, I decided that I had JUST enough gas in the tank to make it to the Western Union and back, and still get to San Jose, without needing any fuel. And with that, I was on my way to. . . I forget the name of the town, but wherever that Western Union was.

I hope y’all are enjoying this, because it’s only half over. . .