Riding a bus in Central America

In certain parts of Central America, countries use old Canadian school busses as their public transportation. You know the ones. The yellow school busses you see in elementary school parking lots. You probably rode one to school at some point in your life. I met an American in Costa Rica that said his father ran a business that sold old rickety yellow school busses to countries in central america. They were everywhere and were usually a two-man operation. The driver just did his thing. He drove the bus and handled the music. The second guy stood at the door and took care of the flow of people on and off the bus. The music bumps and so do the seats. Check the Canadian "Blue Bird" somewhere in Nicaragua below.

The Arrival. San Jose, Costa Rica

A Journey through Central America October 30 2008. Toronto to Mexico City. Mexico City to Costa Rica. 8 hours of travel, a frantic scurry through Aeropuerto Internacional in Mexico City to make the connecting flight and we finally touch down in San Jose, Costa Rica at approximately midnight, coordinated universal time. The airport was small and quiet and we filed through customs with an intersting gentleman, a fellow Canadian, wearing a cap with a conspicuous "perogy" embroidered on the front. His name was Vic, a man of substance, literally. In his plaid shirt with two front pockets, he carried all the essentials. I can still picture a comb, a plastic knife and fork, airplane-size cookies and ofcourse a can't-live-without digital bible. Vic was a retiree in his 60's looking to escape the harsh Albertan winter for a sunnier, more economically managable beach town, Costa Rica. Much like us, he had no plan. Just a twinkle in his eye and a lot of enthusiasm. I still think of Vic every time perogies are on my plate!The cab ride led us down a dark and daunting street. The hostel we booked, our only real preparatory measure, was a barred-in wall of brick,the only light provided by the moon hanging high above us. A sharp wrap on what appeared to be a door, and two eyes appeared. A voice mumbled something to the cab driver, who in turn motioned to me. "Papel?, papel"? With limited Spanish, I understood and pulled out the printed room confirmation and slid it through the slot. As if like Gandalf himself, whispering Mellon to the Doors of Durin, our entrance opened slowly with an air of mystery. The hostel, the name escapes me, was dark, creeky and desolate. Through a foyer, past the kitchen, a left up the narrow stairs and the fellowship enters Moria...A journey awaits