![]() The next day, Sunday, was, Jim advised, a good day to stay off the paved roads. The result was a delicious lunch consisting of half a roasted chicken (one that was, no doubt, crossing the road yesterday) and a fresh strawberry milkshake. The waitress babbled in Spanish we nodded weakly and waited to see what she would bring. We continued on some distance past Sarchi, until growling stomachs led us off the paved road to a restaurant called Se ñor Pollo, Mr. Jim gave us some maps and suggested a couple options for loop trips, then we were on our own.Įventually, after the young men in the Toyota set us back on track the first day, we found our way to Sarchi, a town known for its beautiful wood and leather crafts. Brian took one of the XR250L’s, while I chose the XR200, mainly because it was the only one small enough to fit my 5’ 5” frame. The next morning Jim fitted us with Honda motorcycles. I relaxed that afternoon, trying not to think about the winding, traffic-choked road we had traversed between the airport and Atenas. Unseen insects buzzed in the trees brightly colored birds flew beneath the tropical sun. ![]() Quickly I changed into shorts and went to sit on a terrace next to the pool. Coming from a sub-zero January in Alaska, I immediately realized that I was overdressed. Three weeks later, we stumbled off the red-eye flight in San Jose, Costa Rica and were whisked to a bed-and-breakfast called Villa Tranquilidad in Atenas. I called the number, in Virginia, and talked to Jim Thompson, a man whose calm, soothing voice assured me that my scant two years of riding experience in Alaska was adequate to tackle Costa Rica. It began when I spotted an ad at the back of a motorcycle magazine for a company called Motorcycles Costa Rica. Exploring Costa Rica by motorcycle proved to be an extremely challenging journey of lost and found. Robbery, deadly snakes, colliding with a crazy driver or chicken, crocodiles lurking at river crossings, and the lack of bathrooms along the route: these fears never materialized. Getting lost in the jungles of Central America was the only one of my fears about touring Costa Rica by motorcycle that actually came true. It took only a few minutes before we lost our way again. Grateful for the assistance, we accelerated on the paved road toward Grecia. “ Diez kilometres a Grecia,” he said, “ y derecho a la iglesia.” With an easy smile, he pulled a U-turn and went back the way he had come. We followed them down the mountain and along a back road which crossed a river, ran underneath the Pan-American Highway, and emerged at pavement. They all watched with great interest and humor while I kick-started my motorcycle. “ No comprende,” we said.įinally they pointed to the truck and the motorcycles, getting across to us the idea that we should follow them. His two friends joined into the action, arguing among themselves about the best route to Grecia. We showed him the map, and asked – for the first of many times – “¿ Donde esta aqui?” Where is here? The young man pointed and gestured. The Tico shook his head and said something in Spanish. “¿ Habla Ingl és?” Brian asked hopefully. ![]() Eventually, one of them emerged from the truck and asked us, in Spanish, if we needed help. They stared at the pale North Americans fiddling with a compass. Our first day touring Costa Rica, and already we were hopelessly lost.įrom a gated driveway to our left, a beat-up Toyota truck appeared, three young Tico men crammed into the cab. Sweat poured off of us in the tropical sun as we searched the surrounding valleys and sugarcane fields for a landmark. Brian pulled a topographic map from his backpack. With one eye scanning the grass for snakes, I carefully turned the motorcycle around. At the top of the hill, the road disintegrated into a livestock trail, then disappeared altogether. I dodged boulders and powered my way out of ruts that threatened to swallow my bike’s knobby tires. The dirt road twisted upward, climbing the side of a mountain. © 1996 by Kathleen Kemsley, published in Motorcycle Tour & Travel
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