Tuesday, February 28, 2006

We made it onto the Tica Bus and sure enough, it was only three-quarters full. We had no trouble being assigned seats together. Why does Tica Bus always tell us they're sold out? Do that many people really skip out on their reservations? Whatever, we got on the bus. But the border crossing between Costa Rica and Panama was the most annoying we've had so far.

Our bus arrived at the edge of Panama at 3:45 a.m., though Michael and I didn't know where we were. All we knew was that the bus had stopped. There was a soft sound of snoring in the air that you usually don't hear on the bus because it's drowned out by the noises of the bus moving. And we sat there.

We half-slept until 5:30 a.m., at which point someone came and told us we could get off the bus. We did not know why we were to get off, but we did, and that's when we found out we were at immigration. We all lined up in front of a row of gated windows waiting for the office to open.

During the wait we were entertained by the doings of an old guy with a bicycle specially fitted out with a Swedish flag, wagon trailer and bags on the sides. A big black dog was riding in the trailer. The man parked his bike and walked to and fro doing his errands in a pair of tight bike shorts with some odd looking padding in the butt.

At ten minutes to six, two young women in capris and clackety shoes chatted their way across the parking lot and into the building. At 6:00 a.m. they were open for business and shortly after that, we were stamped out of Costa Rica. Thinking we were done, at least for the moment, I bought some orange juice from two incredibly surly Chinese ladies at a restaurant across the way and tried to get back on the bus.

But we weren't finished. The driver told us to walk over to Panama's customs and immigration. We managed to find this and got in line again. That is where the annoyance started. The immigration guy wanted me to show a ticket out of Panama, which I did not have. I told him I was going to fly to Colombia, but he wanted something he could touch, and told me to buy a return bus ticket. Michael, behind me in line, was told the same.

A lot of countries require proof of onward travel or a return ticket before they'll let you in. We've been wondering when it would hit us. Here, apparently. And the Tica Bus people are ready for it. They have a guy all ready to sell people a $25 USD return ticket from Panama City to San Jose. I tried to ask why we had to buy this useless ticket all the way back to San Jose rather than to somewhere just over the border, but that question was swept away.

So the Tica agent sold us each a ticket and told us that when we buy our plane tickets to Colombia, we can take them to the Tica Bus office in Panama City and receive 85% of our money back. Which is a nice little deal for Tica Bus. Because even if everyone actually bothers to go to that trouble, Tica Bus still gets to keep some of the money for basically nothing.

Fine. We had our return tickets. By that time we'd acquired a Tica Bus helper who took it upon himself to shove our way back to the front of the line. Our immigration man was finishing up with someone else. Some other guy who seemed to be just standing around, no uniform, no ID, not behind a window, wanted us to buy a sticker for our forms. Michael said no and the guy was like, "psht, fine then," but in Spanish. But then our guy behind the window told us we really did need a sticker. These cost $1 each.

Our man then scrawled something on a tiny scrap of paper and sent us to buy tourist cards at another window. Our helper shepherded us to where the tourist cards were for sale on the other side of the complex. While we waited for the window to open, Michael tried to exchange the last of his colones with yet another man. He only had about $5 worth and the exchange guy didn't have anything smaller than a ten. So our helper said he'd help us with that later, and left us.

Then some kid tried to get in on things, telling us we were now standing in front of the window to purchase tourist cards. Yeah, thanks. Then he told us they cost $5. Which was clearly written on the sign. And anyway, we were about to be helped by an actual tourist card lady. Sorry, kid.

So the lady took our passports and the little scrap of paper that the first man had written on and slowly and meticulously wrote out some forms for us. We paid her $5 each and went... sigh... back to the first window with our $25 bus tickets back to San Jose, our shiny $1 stickers, and our $5 tourist cards. And at last it was enough. We got our stamps. Welcome to Panama.

Now for customs. Our helper friend got our backpacks out from under the bus and we went into a round room with scuffed white walls and tables around the outer edges. He told us to put our bags on the tables, so we did. And waited. Gradually the room started to fill up. Then there was a change in the energy in the room as the inspectors trooped in. There was no real order to the way they inspected, it was just a matter of who could position their bags the closest.

We passed inspection and our helper friend yanked our bags away from us and threw them back under the bus. We sat back in our seats. It seemed like hours since we'd woken up and started our Immigration saga. And in fact it had been hours: three of them.

Our helper came along down the aisle of the bus and stuck his hand into our area, rubbing the tips of his fingers together in the universal sign for money. Michael, thinking the guy was going to make good on his promise to help exchange the amount, gave him the last of his colones. But when our helper took them and tucked them away, we kind of looked at each other like, hmm.

"Cambio?" Michael asked. ("Change?")

"Si, si." ("Yes, yes.")

"Cambio o propina?" ("Change or tip?")

"Propina!" ("Tip!")

Luckily we didn't actually need the exchange to get through our first hours in the country. Panama uses the U.S. dollar and we'd replenished our stock at an ATM in San Jose that dispensed dollars as well as colones. Still, that was quite a hefty "tip" for services which we did not request. Now I'm not even sure the guy worked for Tica Bus. He had a Tica Bus t-shirt, but not the red, white, and blue Tica Bus polo shirt and navy pants that all the other guys were wearing.

So we were back on the road at 8:30 a.m. and arrived in Panama City at 3:15 p.m. We caught a $2 taxi to a hotel that costs $8 a night on weeknights, $10 on weekends. It's a nice room but there's no top sheet on the bed, so we'll be using the sleep sheets.

HOURS ON THE BUS: 186

 

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Panama!

Our hotel: Pension Las Palmeras, Panama City.