I’m trying to figure out why the soldier is not responding helpfully to my queries for the location of the Rio Soreno border crossing. He asks for my papers and is visibly flustered as he flips through my passport. His fatigues don’t look like anything I’ve seen in Costa Rica. I crashed hard on a muddy rocky section of double track a half hour prior to finding the remote guard shack and assess the damage to the bike as we talk. I subconsciously review the cascade of errors that lead me to this point and I convince myself I know where I missed the turn off in Sabalito. The map seemed to indicate my route would loop back to Rio Soreno at some point and the lush mountain trail was too enticing to turn back. I am suspended in reality as the tropical mountain terrain whizzes by and I forget my front tire is bald.
“Donde puedo ver Rio Soreno immigracion” I belt out in my monotone Midwest accent. He returns a rapid-fire volley of “xxxxx xxxx no xxxxx xxxxx xxxxx Panama immigracion” in a dialect completely foreign to me. The tension escalates as his gaze vacillates between me and the bike. I note with some disappointment the retaining bolt for the rear brake lever was snapped off in the biff. The blood from my forearm is adhering to the inside of my jacket now. Realizing I’m getting nowhere with the conversation I tend to the bike while we “talk”. I realign the front wheel and handlebars and reattach one of the tank panniers as the soldier seems to lose interest in the affair. It was at this time I catch a glimpse of the flag on the wall inside the guard shack. Panama.
His superior officer appeared from behind the guard shack making his way up the hill to our position, summoned no doubt by the guard when my attention was focused on the bike. His dialect was much easier to discern than that of the subordinate. I revert back to reviewing the series of events that lead me here and prepare my responses for the impending inquisition. I stick with the truth and in my butchered Spanglish I’m able to convince the officer I made a wrong turn. After some small talk about the bike and my travels he points toward a distant hilltop with a large radio tower perched on its peak and says, “Rio Soreno”. In the same gesture he motions toward the road leading around and down the backside of the guard shack. He radios the border crossing to expect me.
