A few buildings appeared, but no parking areas so I squeezed onto a dirt road next to an immigration building and got off in the mud and rain. Across the way several policemen sat on a porch watching. From the bike I went into the building and was waved to another office by a military woman.
The man in the tiny office asked for my passport when I said “Salida Costa Rica” then said “stampa” “policia” and pointed out the door. Walking back into the rain I headed for the building with the police officers on the porch, who then pointed me up the dirt road I’d parked on, where I saw a “policia inmigracion” sign and walked into the converted shipping container. I showed the officer my documents but he handed them back to me and pointed toward the town saying “tax” and “soda” but pointed to his watch. I wandered down to the town and saw a sign for copias so I went in and said “tax salida?” She pointed out the door and said “izquierda”. Back out in the rain, to the left was a hardware store and beyond it a fried chicken place. As I walked up to the chicken place I stopped and saw the copy girl watching me. She motioned towards the hardware store.
Back down the hill I asked the guy on the hardware store porch wearing rubber boots holding several rakes the same question. He waved for me to follow and into the store we went. He moved some things to uncover a computer then asked for my passport and began entering info as I looked at the bags of feed stacked around. Eventually he said “ocho” and printed a receipt, placing it in my passport. Eight bucks later I was out in the rain again and back to the copy place to get some extras of the passport just in case. One dollar later I was back in the rain trudging up the dirt road for the immigration police, who weren’t happy about my wet folder on their desk, but eventually stamped my passport and talked to me about something I had no comprehension of.
Out into the rain again, my head soaked and my helmet interior wet, I went back to the original immigration official who kept saying “seguro” and tapping his watch and pointing back towards town. It was at that moment I realized I was in the Panama immigration building trying to check out of Costa Rica. No wonder he was frustrated. In defense of myself, it was darkish and raining heavily when I arrived, and my mind was on my rear tire and the hour and half ride still ahead. Besides, there is never any real signage at the crossings.
Out into the rain again, I wandered back to the immigration police station and they pointed me to a building behind them, to which I wandered in the rain. The girl there wasn’t too helpful but processed my paperwork as a heavily armed guard came out snd stood directly behind me. I Google Translated the document and figured out what I needed, wondering for a while whether I should sign the portion saying I couldn’t bring the bike back into the country. I wondered because it was getting late and apparently there was some deadline I was about to miss. I was envisioning having to sit in the rain between borders all night since I couldn’t return to Sabalito if I couldn’t get into Panama. I signed it and committed myself.
Back to the Panama immigration officer once again, he pointed at his watch and said “seguro cinco”. I walked back out and saw another building which I assumed was the Aduana and approached the window. No English of course and he looked at the papers and said lots of words in Spanish, then looked at all my paperwork again, passing it back to me and saying “seguro cerrado” and pointing back into the town. He felt sorry for me and came out, pointing to a street where a car had come out of and said “rapido”, taking my helmet and setting it in his office. I ran out into the rain and down the street, looking frantically for any sign that said insurance. I saw a building that had "seguro" on it but it was closed and my heart sank. However, next to it was a tiny metal shack with "seguro" and an open door, so I burst in soaking wet and scared the lady who was playing games on her tablet. I was so happy I wanted to kiss her. Eventually she got most of the info entered in her computer but the power flickered and I prayed the system wouldn’t go down before she finished. Power goes out frequently in the region.
By this time I was beat as I went back in the rain and up the hill to the Aduana. I gave him everything and he looked it all over very slowly then handed it back and pointed back to the Panama Immigration building. Once again in the rain and into the office, the now disgusted immigration officer took his time but eventually handed me back more paperwork and pointed to the Aduana. Back through the rain to the building and I was excited because I knew the final portion was almost done. Except there was a problem with my paperwork, the title wasn’t enough or he wasn’t sure of the bike color or God knows what. I didn’t know what to do, but the only piece of paper I had left was my registration that was still safely tucked away in my pannier. On the bike. Up the hill. In the rain.
Back again, he was perturbed at something and sat for a while. It was almost dark, I was shaking from fatigue, no food and being wet in the cool temperatures, and was damn afraid of the twisty mountain road ahead in heavy fog, rain and darkness. With a rear tire that could blow again. He looked at me and I at him, then he opened the door to his secure office and told me to sit in the chair next to him. I was about to crap waiting to hear I couldn’t enter the country, when he showed me his computer and indicated for me to look at my papers and help him. It was clear he didn’t know how to use the data entry or computer very well, but I spent 45 minutes pointing out information on my paperwork, then where to click the field on the computer until he finally let me enter the info myself. He wanted to enter the "Nationality" part himself, and kept repeatedly going to Rwanda and many countries other than the US. I was terrified he was going to put in the Panamanian system that I was from Afghanistan or somewhere like that as he kept clicking on countries randomly. He couldn’t figure out how to scroll down the list and I desperately wanted to take the mouse out of his hand. I kept pointing with a pen to "go down" but he didn’t understand. I kept saying “Estados Unidos”, but it wasn’t on the list, and neither was USA or United States. As he wheeled the mouse I briefly saw “Americano” and yelled out. It took him a while but he finally clicked on it. I was toast from the stress. He printed out some papers, gathered up pieces he’d spread all over and handed them to me. I spotted my title and insurance in a different pile and grabbed them. He kept repeating something in Spanish about Policia and pointing to the papers so I translated “Do I need to give these to the police before I leave?” but he never responded. Finally I just gave up and said “Todo?” He said si and shook my hand.
By now it was dark, my papers were wet, I was soaked and exhausted, I hadn’t been able to contact my friends in Volcán who were expecting me about 3pm and all I wanted to do was get going and away from the border. I kicked the rear tire and it still sounded like it had air so I piled on and got going. The rain was pouring, it was foggy, I couldn’t see out of my visor for the drops and steam and I said a prayer for the road. My friends had said the road was high, twisty and dangerous and that was all that was in my mind as I rode as quickly as I could afford to. My pants were so wet my boots had filled and the sweat from my rain jacket was now damn cold in the mountain air.
My mind never stopped wondering about the rear tire and my heavily loaded bike, once hearing a loud bang and stopping on the roadway since there are no shoulders, hoping my flashers were good enough in the heavy rain. It must have been a backfire as the tire responded well to my kick so I got going again. Several landslides had occurred from the water, one large enough to block 70% of the roadway and I wondered why the hell my day was going so badly.
