It was another hot and overwhelming day. The calendar marked May 6, 2008 and the heat that emanated form the asphalt seemed to melt the tires, which was heavier than normal. The wind blew relentlessly against me and the scarcity of vegetation intensified the feeling of uneasiness of those last kilometers from Nicaragua. A swarm of small flies invaded the shoulders of roads. They were so abundant that I could hear the impact of their tiny bodies on my helmet. I had to close my mouth up and lower my head to avoid gagging with them and my clothes, arms and legs were upholstered with hundreds of flies inexorably trapped by the copious sweat.

This time I was entering a new country by the main border crossing, which was immediately evident. The waiting lines were long and the hours evaporated as fast as the water in my body. After the inevitable payment of two dollars to get the exit stamp from Nicaragua, I entered Costa Rica, where a longer line was waiting for me. A meandering human line stretched 200 meters outside the immigration building, looking for the slightest glimmer of shade to shelter from the scorching rays of the sun.

Chatting with some people I realized that 99% of those present were Nicaraguans. Their condition was humble and I soon was witness to another harsh reality of this battered nation. Costa Rica was to Nicaragua what the U.S. is to Mexico in terms of the migration of people desperate to find a better quality of life and the possibility of securing the economic livelihood of those who were left behind. Many were heading to Caribbean areas, where the banana industry needed cheap and low-skilled labor.

As soon as I started riding in Costa Rica, I noticed a huge difference. As if by magic, trees had returned and with them their refreshing shade, the odious little flies had disappeared and signs of extreme poverty appeared to be part of the past. The houses were more strongly built and instead of traveling like cattle into the crowded box of a truck, people were traveling in modern buses. For the first time in a long time I saw 4x4 vehicles everywhere. It was like entering a big bubble escaping the harsh reality that I came to witness in the other Central American countries.

Compared with its neighbors, Costa Rica has been different from the time of the Spanish colonization. The lack of mineral wealth and its geographical features kept it in the background until the first half of the nineteenth century, where coffee and banana industries gave a great economic boost to the region. Without being free from internal conflicts, Costa Rica achieved something unique in an area accustomed to fighting: in 1949 a new constitution abolished the national army. It was also able to handle the situation to avoid falling into the predatory U.S. interventionism that engulfed the rest of the Central American countries in the mid-eighties. Without neglecting moments of crisis and economic instability, Costa Rica was forging the path to this day, becoming a Mecca for ecotourism, current hallmark of this nation.

The mark of this phenomenon was evident everywhere. The signs were predominantly in English and prices are handled in dollars and not in colons. Everything around me was "eco": eco-lodges, eco-tours, eco-farms ... except for economic! My first foray into a supermarket left me on the verge of a nervous breakdown not only for having to handle much higher figures for the exchange rate, but because the values translated into dollars was still exorbitant. The price of this development that was in front of me was very high, and it was felt in my meager budget.

However, there was good news! In Costa Rica the water was drinkable and one could easily drink it everywhere! It was something that I have not seen since I had crossed the border into Mexico. It was no longer necessary to think where to get the vital fluid without having to pay for it. Now I could simply serve myself until satiety at any faucet that I could find. I was touching the sky with my hands!

In my early days rolling on this country I noticed the great warmth of its people. While I did not catch as much attention as in the past, whenever I stopped to rest some "Tico", as Costa Ricans are known, would approach me and would enter into a friendly conversation with me. In general, I was initially associated with a gringo and wanted to take the opportunity to practice their English; luckily the disappointment of meeting a Spanish-speaker was quickly overtaken by the interest on the bike trip... or issues related to football!

Life was much more relaxed, I did not have to be so vigilant about security issues and that allowed me to enjoy even more the natural environment around me. I had recovered an inner peace that I had almost forgotten that it already existed in the past few months. The local idiosyncrasy could be summarized in just two words that were registered trademark of the ticos: "pure life". It was the cliché that people were usually greeted with, but it took me a lot to assimilate. Aún estaba tratando de digerir lo que había presenciado en el resto de Centroamérica y esa frase me sonaba como un cachetazo en plena cara. I was still trying to digest what I had witnessed in the rest of Central America and that phrase sounded to me like a slap on the face

Despite its small size, the country offered an endless supply of natural attractions of all kinds and I wanted to see a little of everything. The geography was not exactly conducive to riding in a direct and straightforward way, but it rather showed great physical challenges. Surprisingly for a country so developed for tourism, the roads were narrow and with the exception of the main road, they were all an extra challenge for my riding skills.

My first foray was going through the livestock region or "savanna" towards the Pacific coast. While I knew this was a highly touristy and expensive area (like the rest of the country!), I could not overlook this region famous for its surfing waves. So that how I ended up in Samara, after a hilly road that took me inside the Nicoya peninsula. I found a campsite where to spend the nights and I was in a privileged site, just a few meters from the sea and under the palm trees.

There I met Thomas, an Argentine who for years had been traveling the roads of South America and with whom I shared the afternoons between mates and good conversation. The sea was a standing invitation to cool down and the beautiful surfer girls in bikinis riding the waves was a spectacle far more interesting than any television program. Even one could do some "zapping" according to the area of the beach where one chooses to settle. The trouble was that at the same time it was a torture, because without a board next me and while ignoring even the basics of the subject, it was a utopia to try to pick up one of those beauties.

That atmosphere of paradise was transformed dramatically when the night fell. In addition to the noisy bars that competed in the volume of the music they played, a new world emerged from the bowels of the sand. An army of relentless ants spread everywhere, with the odious characteristic of irritate the skin even with the slightest contact. Walking barefoot in those hours was being as reckless as leaving the tent open for a few moments. In addition to these undesirable companions, one could also get inside some spiders, lizards or even some of the howler monkeys who lived in the tops of palm trees.

My second night there I had the opportunity to be face to face with a natural phenomenon rather chilling. The total calm that reigned was abruptly replaced by a wind with hurricane characteristics that made the palm trees to bend to extreme limits and almost uprooted my tent. EI expected the inexorable end curled up inside my tent when suddenly, as swiftly as it had appeared, the wind stopped and everything returned to calm. Definitely I did not want to be in these latitudes when the time came for storms! Definitivamente no quería estar por esas latitudes cuando llegara la época de tormentas!!

Back on the road that I had arrived from, I went towards another flagship site of Costa Rica: the Monteverde Cloud Forest. Born originally as a Quaker’s settlement of, the region was gradually becoming one of the largest tropical ecological reserves in the world, protecting thousands of acres of native forest and served as a refuge to many animal species, such as legendary quetzal.

The zeal to avoid a massive tourist invasion, which is also the main activity in the area, has managed to keep the roads unpaved and I would even say that they were perversely kept in poor condition. The climb from Las Juntas to Santa Elena, the epicenter of the tourist sector, exceeded all my expectations. Even though it was only 30 miles away, the slope and inhumane gravel conditions made me use the whole day to get up there.

At least the scenery was an extra incentive, because the more I climbed and got into in the forest, that’s were the most captivating sights were. I had to push the bike in many spots as the grip of the tires was zero, and even in the few descents that I did, I had to almost stop completely to avoid losing my teeth from the rattle.

My speed was so slow that one of the descents I had the opportunity to engage in a full conversation with a guy who was working the land alongside the road. When he said: "Do you want a coffee?", I did not hesitate for one second and just supporting one foot on the floor I stopped to get close to his home. It was my first authentic Costa Rican coffee and on top of that, it was "organic", coming from the farm where Alexander worked. Along with her mother, Dona Flor, we chatted for a good time and we celebrated the passage of 17,000 kilometers (10,625 miles) of travel on my journey.

With a good supply of coffee in the panniers and with high spirits, I slowly took the last kilometers to Santa Elena. The center of the tiny village was basically an agglomeration of inns and travel offices engaged in marketing the endless options to tour in this natural paradise. Whether doing "canopy", a walk through trees and high platforms from which one goes flying over the forest canopy on a cable; traveling on the "sky tram," a cable car that plunged into the treetops, or doing a "sky trek" on suspended walkways in the heart of the rain forest, one could get the most the region offers. For my part, I had to conform with a simple, traditional visit to the reserve of Santa Elena ... and paying only the student fee!

Unfortunately, the quetzal was reluctant to appear in full body and we had to do with only its tail peeking from the nest. Nevertheless, the journey through these woods in virtually original condition justified the effort of having to come up there!

Like it was something planned, the Pension Santa Elena proved to be a point of reunion with almost all the people that I had met on the Ometepe Island, including Moon! It was very funny to slowly discover that we almost knew everybody there from before! Would it be that the cordial and friendly atmosphere that the owners and employees of the place offered that made it became one of the best places to use as a base in the area?

My next destination was the Arenal Volcano, famous for its permanent activity that attracts people from all over the world to see its explosions of rocks and burning lava ... when the clouds permit. While the distance that separated me from it was not far, the main road was long and tortuous,along the banks of the namesake lake. However, there wasa shortcut via a less frequented road, as one had tocrossthe Caño Negro River, which had no bridge and which became inaccessible during the rainy months. Months which were exactly beginning on those days...

It was Tuesday, 13 (in Spanish, the equivalent to Friday the 13th) when I took to the pedals to continue my journey. While I was never superstitious, that day it seemed that everything was willing to conspire against me. I started the day discovering that I had lost the white bandanna that I had been using on head to avoid the sun's rays, one of those things where one is getting attached during the course of the trip and that came from Canada.

After bidding farewell to the people and laden with nostalgia, I took on a steep descent down a gravel road as bad as the one where I had arrived from. But something was wrong. In theory I would find a junction towards the town of Tilarán, but the kilometers passed and I did not see anything. Moreover, the track seemed to go deep into a narrow and steep valley where I could see no alternative outlets. Concerned about my path I took advantage of the occasional passage of trucks that came about climbing the hill to inquire where I was and my fears were confirmed: I took the wrong turn! I was going down towards the Pan-American Highway and continuing that way the turn around would be eternal! My face of despair and the string of insults that I said to myself brought up the sympathy and amusement of the drivers, who offered to give me a lift to get back to Santa Elena without losing half a day on it. Between four of us, we lifted Maira over one of the trucks and lying on the heavy rocks load I got back thinking about how stupid I was for not corroborating my direction when leaving the village.

The people at the inn did not understand very well what I was doing there just a couple of hours after leaving. "I was already missing you all" was my reply before I told them what had happened in between laughs. With the mid-morning sun hitting hard I restarted my journey, this time on the right track

The bike computer became stubborn and every once in a while I had to adjust its sensor for it to respond. I had lost one of the water bottles (which fortunately I recovered later) and with the course of the day I realized that the rear tire was deformed by the use of and touched the frame ... and I had no spare! To complete the picture, the chicken wire holding the front rack from Guatemala finally gave in to the permanent jolting of the road and I nearly lost a saddlebag. A memorable day!

The "descent" to Lake Arenal took a few of those climbs where it is impossible to maintain the balance of the bike, so progress was very slow. El paisaje seguía siendo muy atractivo y como estaba circulando por caminos secundarios, era una especie de búsqueda del tesoro que me mantenía entretenido ya que debía preguntar a cada rato por dónde andaba para no perderme. The landscape was still very pretty and as I was riding through secondary roads, it was sort of a treasure hunt that kept me entertained as I had to ask all the time my whereabouts to avoid getting lost.

The descent was finally there when I took the detour to the village of Rio Chiquito. The path would meander along gentle hills with the Arenal volcano merging itself with the horizon. Suddenly, as in the initial drop of a roller coaster, the road dropped with a slope so steeply angled that I almost fall on my face! With the brakes screeching and trying to stabilize the bike by shifting my ass back as much as possible, I passed this stretch of one kilometer that it was impossible to believe! How would cars climb it? And with rain? I could not imagine!

The small town seemed floating in the torpor of a Sunday afternoon. No one was outside the houses and the only human presence seemed to be a lady working in a tiny pantry and the man who was resting sitting on a bench inside this place. I joined the meeting and I shared with them some cookies and a soda, while a few other parishioners approached from time to time to buy something.

At the start of the day it intended to reach the village of El Castillo, after fording the Caño Negro River. I did not have much idea of the amount of miles left and attempts to obtain such information were unsuccessful. According to what I heard, it was something between 8 and 24 kilometers! The path around Arenal Lake would gradually deteriorate, and although I had anticipated that, I kept the hope that it wouldn’t be not so terrible. Well, on this occasion it had not been exaggerated: it was a disaster! El avance se tornó más que lento y la profusión de rocas sueltas daba la impresión de ir por el lecho de un río. The trip became more sluggish and the profusion of loose rocks made it seem as if I was riding on the river bed.

The night was progressing and I had to find where to rest. In a farm cared for by a young couple I got permission to settle in an abandoned building of what once was a recreational pavilion. The panoramic view of the lake and the volcano were incomparable and a herd of not at all shy cows were my only company. But at nightfall an army of pseudo-beetles left their lair, which turned out to be the roof of palms that was my refuge. At least there were no ants!

After making some repairs to the front rack and rotating the tires to try to get to San Jose, I took the trail that took me little by little to the river that could stop my progress. I had failed to have a consensus view about the flow of water that came in those days, so it was a mystery to know if I could overcome the obstacle or if I would have to go back to where I came from.

Apart from some ranchers moving their cows, I had not seen a lot of human presence there. Until a group of tourists showed up on ATVs and endurance motorcycles, making a deafening noise, covering me with dirt and attacking me as they came racing ahead with the gas to the max. At least I managed to find out that the river was passable and if they had succeeded, I should be able to do so.

The closeness to the watercourse was noted by the slowdown in the flood zone. Resigned to get dirty, I went through the mud pit that was in front of me and got to the banks of the river. It was about 15 meters wide and was somewhat fast, but at least one opportune dam improvised with some rocks allowed me to cross without going deeper than the knees. My fantasies of crossing with the water up to my neck and with my gear over my head were quite simplified and the reality was much less exciting than I had imagined.

I went through El Castillo almost without realizing it. The dramatic figure of the Arenal volcano caught my full attention. From this side one could see continuous expulsions of rocks that would go rolling and bouncing down marking a path of small fumaroles. I was fortunate to coincide with a group of high school students from Aguas Zarcas and while we saw these giant rocks the size of a car drop down, we share a delicious lunch.

I traveled the remaining miles until the epicenter of tourism in the region, the town of La Fortuna. I rode past an endless succession of hotels, recreational complexes, cabanas, spas and high-level accommodations in which each appeared to compete for the bigger picture window with views to the volcano ... and the least original name. It did not matter that it was a geologically unstable area; it was a good business and they had to use it!

My hunger for the hot spring marked the course of my next destination. On the outskirts of La Fortuna they wouldn’t had let me get close to one of these "centers of relaxation" not even to ask the time, but the relatively nearby hot springs of "The Tucanito" was what I was looking for. I got permission to stay overnight under the shelters used for the Sunday barbecues and I even had the privilege of being the sole user of the site. After a walk surrounded by vegetation, I arrived at the place so longed to discover that the entire river was hot! Wandering among the clouds of steam that emerged from its waters, I looked for a corner where I could soak the body without scalding and I fell asleep for a while.

That period of relaxation was providential because the next day I was expecting a big physical challenge: the climb toward Varablanca. In a stretch of just 20 kilometers I had to go from 300 meters in height to more than 2000 meters above sea level, without considering the zigzagging typical of these escalations. When I reached the crossroads where the route started to gain altitude, I stopped to ask the police what to expect and the officer's face said it all. When he saw me with such a load he said: "nothing good". Kindly he made me a complete description of the hardships that awaited me, with a wealth of detail about the towns through which it would pass and miles traveled. But that did not agree with what my map said. We differed by about 8 miles to my favor, at least according to my letter of reference. Relying more on the veracity of the latter I began to climb.

The slope was steep and the effort became ever larger. Slowly I was getting into the bowels of the mountain, surrounded by an imposing green tinged with the mystery of the mist that was rising. When I saw a spot with several parked cars, I realized that it was the perfect place to pause and eat something. I was right and for one reason everybody was there: the food was really delicious! Convinced that there were just over 4 miles to get to my final destination, I made the mistake of consulting if it was right. Of course, the police was correct in his predictions, and my map was wrong with its estimates. Una distancia que en el llano no me hubiera movido ni un pelo, pero que al tratarse de sectores con pendientes con más del 15 % de inclinación resultaban algo más intimidantes. A distance that in the plains would have not moved a hair, but in these sectors with slopes with more than 15% of inclination, it was somewhat more daunting.

Those remaining 12 kilometers were the cruelest for my legs. After a leveled place where a spectacular waterfall appeared to want to swallow the road, the road climbed amid a succession of curves and counter-curves in which it was increasingly difficult to maintain balance. The cars, which were not few, encouraged me with their horns and I could see the baffled faces of their occupants when they saw me move almost statically on the pedals. It seemed that what I was doing should looked so inhuman and the effort was so obvious on my face that a car stopped in front of me and Edgar generously gave me a few colons for me to buy something to eat and regain my energy!

I was only 500 meters from my target when a noise accompanied by a strong pull left my legs turning senseless. For the first time in the history of my biking trips, I had a broken chain! Hence, I realized that indeed, those 2000 meters of climb had been quite demanding!

At night I went to eat something to a small local soda and I was a victim of the abuse that tends to happen when tourism becomes massive. When I saw the menu I thought that something was wrong. The prices of the simplest things were too expensive, too much for a place as simple and humble as that one. I was about to get up to go when the owner realized his mistake and told me: "ah, no, you're Argentine ... I like Argentines ... that’s why I'm going to give you a special price." And he gave me the same menu, but with values that were a third of the previous one! It was the menu for the locals, while he originally gave me the one for the tourists that looked like gringos. Pathetic.

I had chosen that route because when I sent some postcards from Sámara, my attention was drawn to the image on the stamp. On them one could see the crater of a volcano with a dense white smoke column. It was the Poas Volcano, and when I checked my map I saw that by diverting a few miles from Varablanca I could reach it, pedaling almost to the top of it. Of course those kilometers were a full climb, but apparently, the effort was worthwhile.

nfortunately at the entrance to the namesake National Park I hadanother unpleasant episode with the economic issue. In addition to what it seemed to me an exaggerated value of admission for a foreigner (10 U.S. dollars) in relation to a local ($ 2), the employee's attitude was what got me-exaggerated. Without saying hello and with very bad manners, all that he said was: "10 dollars”. While I recovered my breath I asked if they had a special rate for students, cyclists or for foreigners from developing countries. Many times I had been allowed in for free in other parks considering the effort to get there by bike. Annoyed by my questions and without caring that I was speaking in a perfect "Argentine" he replied, "To process the visa to the United States they charged us $ 100. That is expensive!" I looked at him with my best mad face and I replied: "And what do I have to do with it? And what that has to do with the price of entry to the National Park?. Don’t you realize that I am not a gringo?" And I continued with a lengthy string of insults demonstrating how creative the argentine slang could be, which lasted a good time while I rode away. Obviously the man didn’t want to give me his name and despite looking for a book of complaints and suggestions that the only thing they could offer was a visit book. Regrettable.

Despite this bitter setbacks and being surrounded by international tourists to the point of having lost the notion of being in Central America, the spectacle offered by the crater of the Poas with its permanent sulfide column made up for the situation. Had it not been for the level of toxicity of the fumes that flooded the atmosphere I would have stayed for hours contemplating this natural marvel. Meanwhile, the clouds came from the valleys to cover it all as inexorably happened almost every day after mid-morning

The descent to the central valley, where San Jose, the capital city is located, was a formality where I gradually went into areas increasingly more populated. Trying to reach the home of Daniel and Lenny, my contacts in the city, I discovered that ticos had no idea how to give directions. Indeed, the problem was the system they used! Instead of names or numbers on the streets, everything is handled with a bizarre method of including references to times and places that are not longer there! Like "from the old historical theater 300 meters north and 100 east." What? How? A tong twister impossible for an outsider to decipher! Asking the name of the street outside the main avenues only generated glances of uncertainty and answers like: "keep going a little further and ask later." I think I arrived at the house of my friends by chance alone and with my tolerance levels in red!

For being a capital city, San Jose was relatively small and easy to tour. I could go from one end of downtown to the other on the bike in 15 minutes, which simplified things quite a bit. The days passed quickly, busy with various activities, among which were the visit to the SOS Village near Santa Ana and some visits to the National and Regional offices of the Organization. Lenny and Daniel opened the doors of their house with total dedication and soon after my arrival it seemed like I was another local. I was spoiled like an only child and they took me to visit the surroundings and every corners of the city. It was nice to be civilized for a while!

It was long time since I had seen a big group of recreational cyclists. The weekend was an explosion of people riding on high quality bikes and sheathed in the best clothes, covering the narrow roads and the endless climbs and dizzying descents. Until that time the bike had only being an economic means of transport instead of a vehicle for sports and enjoyment of the natural environment.

In those days I was lucky enough to cross paths again with my road brother Japhy, recalling stories of what we had experienced in the recent weeks.. It was truly a family gathering in the far distance from our respective homes.

What determined the length of my stay in the city was the care to which I had to submit Maira. Beginning with the replacement of tires that was made possible by Karla, Japhy’s sister that had brought them from the United States, going through the replacement of the chain and other things that suddenly became important. Minor Villalobos, whom I met through the SOS Village, became a kind extension of my body, taking me from one place to another and helping out with any question. It was thanks to him that I met David Fonseca, Pan American champion in mountain biking, who offered to perform a comprehensive maintenance to Maira. While he dismembered each part of the bike, he discovered that the rear wheel was holding on by sheer miracle, as its chain ring cone was broken. I arrived to San Jose in one piece by a miracle! Luckily his unequaled expertise left Maira so impeccable that it was hard for me to recognize it. It was the first time I saw it that clean and calibrated, as if it had just left the factory.. I was even sad to take it out and get it wet with the omnipresent afternoon showers every day.

It was Saturday May 24 in the morning and I went to the park La Sabana to meet up with Japhy. Together we were going to participate in a demonstration in support of the rights of cyclists and in demand of better conditions for riding the city, not very respectful in that regard with its chaotic traffic. I just arrived and when I went to greet my endearing friend, as I had done in thousands of occasions before, I supported myself over the handlebars of the bike and I saw in shock as it started to break as if it was made out of butter. I could not believe it!! So, without any effort in particular!

It was like receiving a bucket of cold water on the head. On one hand, I knew that it was virtually impossible to get a replacement for that ergonomic handle in these latitudes, and the geometry of the bike was based on its unusual form. On the other hand, I could not stop thinking that if that had happened to me the next day down to the shores of the Caribbean, I surely would had cracked my head open.. Fortunately Japhy was there and right away we began to discuss possible alternatives to overcome this problem. An intensive search on the Internet found that the only place where I could get the original replacement was in England! The idea of waiting weeks for it to arrive was not a viable option. We went to the largest bike shop in the city, Ciclo Los Ases and we confirmed our suspicions that it was impossible to get a similar replacement in the country. What to do? The timely intervention of Rodolfo Soto, the shop owner, was providential. Upon learning of what happened and seeing my face in pain, he put his best mechanic, Roger, to work on the subject.

Outside it was raining. The leaden and sad sky reflected my mood with my concern about the situation. When Roger finished cutting the handlebar to try a repair by adding a strengthening insert, a tear almost rolls down my cheek. I was suffering from seeing such carnage! A piece of a bike frame, epoxy resin, a few screws and an external reinforcement rod worked a miracle and three days later than planned I was ready to resume the pedals. Would this improvised patch hold up? You should do it for the next 1500 kilometers, until I get to Medellin, where my cyclist friends Johnny and Anne had committed themselves to get a replacement and mail it there.

The impact of my visit to the SOS Village in Santa Ana had exceeded all my expectations and after appearing in the media for almost a week, leaving the city was disconcerting to see that many people recognized me and greeted me from their cars with the classic and unmistakable "Che, Boludo!".

Inside the mist and plagued by a persistent drizzle, I came to the dreaded tunnel that would take me into the bowels of the Braulio Carrillo National Park, a beautiful rain forest reserve that seemed to swallow the road with its lush greenery. I was told terrible stories about that road in terms of its dangerousness, and they even warned me that I could not go through the tunnel with the bike. The reality was quite different and I crossed the tunnel without any problems and totally undetected by the authorities.

The descent to the coastal plains of the Caribbean passed rapidly, avoiding the heavy traffic that was moving with caution and precaution on the wet pavement. The temperature was rising until the rain turned from being a nuisance into a refreshing balm in the suffocating atmosphere.

I was able to reach Siquirres and take refuge at the home of Carlos Sasso, from the Scout movement, who thanks to contacts in San Jose had offered me a place to spend the night. I arrived just in time before the drizzle became a downpour of hellish proportions, as was customary in almost every afternoon. The month of May was very advanced and the wet season was installed with its entire rigor in the region.

Passing through the outskirts of Limon I went to Puerto Viejo, my final destination before crossing to Panama. The dominant color under the rain was green. A furious green was blinding in the large banana plantations and palm trees that dot the beaches that timidly begun to show up to my left. It was my first contact with the warm waters of the Caribbean.

As often happens, things never happen as planned ... but sometimes even much better! As if it was part of a conspiracy, everything went by with a kind of domino effect that led by pure chance, causality or synchronicity to cross paths with a very special person: It was leaving a cybercafé after greeting my dad for his birthday when a girl approached me and told me with a big smile:

-"Welcome!"

-"Errr, Do I know you?" I said puzzled.

-"No," she replied, "but I saw you in the newspapers this week. You're the Argentine who rides through America by bike for the kids of SOS Village, right? "

-“Yes, yes, that’s me"

- Do you have a place to stay?”

- "Well, I had an option but it just fell through"

So that’s how I ended up in a beautiful rustic home in Playa Chiquita, surrounded by the jungle vegetation, with all the imaginable comforts, hot water, a pool, 3 dogs, 4 cats (one like my black cat Kato), a few meters away form beaches worthy of a postcard ... and with the unparalleled attention of a luxury host. Saananda was taking care of that place, owned by Ruth, an American who every 15 days traveled on business to her home country and who had left that same evening, leaving the place to my entire disposal. It was my dad's birthday, but I was the one receiving gifts!

Initially I thought about staying only a couple of days exploring the area ... in total they were six! While Hurricane Alma caused havoc on the Pacific side, where I should go later, the weather was the most benevolent in this bubble within a bubble in which I was.. If Japhy had been camping in the vicinity, this time it would be him listening to the “howler monkeys” up-close as it happened to me in Palenque.

Saananda's uncle, Gustavo, was one more in the house during those days and we shared mates and walks around the area! Kindly he offered me his computer so that I could work a little on my webpage, without knowing that I would take it for almost a week!

I was fortunate to be able to give a talk about the trip to the boys and girls from the elementary school in Playa Chiquita: they were thrilled with the videos of my visits to Children's Villages and the wiggle of Freddy turbine on his bike without training wheels. The ethnic diversity of the kids was unbelievable and it seemed that I was immersed in a Benetton ad! Of the more emotional questions, the one from Iael took all the prizes: "Can you pedal through the clouds," she said. "When I’m in Peru I’ll give you an answer," I replied, touched by her tenderness.

Little by little I met the characters in the area, plenty of Argentines to the point that I almost felt like home, but left in the wilderness showed in a tourist promotional brochure. Unlike other times, people of Playa Chiquita seemed more interested in telling their own story than listen to mine. A more than appreciated break! Alvaro, with his quirky tales of scorpions and Juan, telling about his commercial origins selling homemade pies, entertained the afternoons and evenings shared

It was a very special place, where abounded single foreign women, mostly European, almost all with young children ... of color! It seemed to be a daycare scattered within the vegetation of the surrounding jungle, where it was impossible not to see kids running or playing on the beaches. However, this seeming paradise had some darker corners. In the region was a rapist who had attacked several women, and although they knew who he was, he was protected by his uncle, who was a drug dealer in Puerto Viejo and friend of the authorities. One night we went into town to dance I had the opportunity to see them... While listening to live calypso music, my friends approached me and said:”that one behind you is the rapist... and the one next to him, the uncle. Oh, and also that one, the "bad fat", he’s the thief of the area. Small town, big hell, I thought! (meaning Everybody Knows Everything and Everyone).

Mixing my writing with visits to the beaches of white sand, palm trees, crystal clear waters and stunning topless girls (a challenge for my self-control), my stay in this little piece of paradise came to an end. Saananda put the finishing touch spoiling me with my favorite dish, Milanesas con Pure, and on June 4 2008, after one year on the roads of America, I left bound for Panama loaded with good memories and new friends.

I returned to the main road to immerse myself again in a true "Banana Republic". The only thing that was on either side of the road was banana plantations, with the little aesthetic and un-ecological blue nylon bags on top of the clusters to accelerate the ripening of the fruits. The villages that appeared scattered across the area were formed by precarious settlements and the only highlights were the "Chiquita" processing plants, the big monopoly for the exploitation of these fruits in the region.

The crossing point through which I would enter Panama was just there because of this company, which had opened it in order to get its production through the nearby port of Almirante. The railroad bridge of the disappeared line that once carried the goods for export had become an impromptu path for contemporary’s trucks that crossed very tightly by the narrow corridor. However, the number of foreign visitors was significant because it was the most direct path from Costa Rica to Bocas del Toro region, a place in a booming tourism growth.

After crossing the bustling banana capital of Changuinola, I arrived at Finca 50, where I could board the speedboat that would take me to Bocas. Indeed it was true that it was fast and it was a dizzying trip through mangroves and heavy vegetation.

The good fortune that I had with people’s hospitality stayed behind when I arrived to this place. In Puerto Viejo, I had information about a marplatense that owned a hotel on the island, the "Limbo," and I was assured that once he learned about my journey, Paqui Galé, the person in question, would be happy to give me a hand with the lodging. After waiting patiently for a couple of hours and knowing that Paqui had already arrived due to a casual chat with someone on the street, I approached to see if I could meet him but I found the situation a little embarrassing. Without even wanting to confront me in person, he made his secretary lie saying that that day he would not come and that it could only offer me a discount on a single room ... that cost 100 dollars a night! Beyond the fact that he could sympathized with me or not, I was a very low tactic pretending to be absent, and when I told the girl that I had seen him entering and that in any case it seemed a pathetic attitude, the poor girl did not know where to hide. There I was reminded that not all people were cordial and friendly and that pettiness still goes around the world. With shame for his behavior I went in search of a better place to rest my bones.

That night I ended up invited by my occasional roommates at the Hostel to take a few drinks at a bar and celebrate my year on the road. We were dancing to the beat of reggae, which was gradually switching to reggaeton! Incidentally there was a colored girl who danced around us and came up to me to start bumping all over me with the characteristic movements of the dance. While she wasn’t ugly, her jeans desmerecían her figure and were not exactly glamorous. In total contrast, to our side there was a perfectly blonde German girl, clad in very short shorts and with a heartbreaking top that was bumping against a black guy that what was most pleased with the DJ’s selection of music. As much as it tried, I could not understand anything about what my companion said as she spoke English in a mumbling way. And I think that she did not understand me either. Even though I insisted that I was not a gringo and that did not have money on me, she persevered in trying to get me to buy something to drink. It was not clear to me whether the girl wanted to seduce me or get the money, and by the face of her cronies, I was more inclined for the latter option. The only thing I thought was about how bail and get out of there! For the first time in my life I escaped from a female as fast as I could and returned to the Hostel laughing about the absurdity of the situation! What could have been a fantasy turn reality seemed more like a scene out of an Almodovar movie! Bizarre!

Leaving Bocas I expected a “flat” stretch until Chiriqui Grande, where I would make the leap to the Pacific side to be reunited with the Pan American Highway, the main artery and only vehicular pass through Panama. Of course, the plain was a continuum of endless ups and downs under a scorching sun in an area virtually forgotten in the country, where the road was brand new. The villages were rustic and precarious shacks of indigenous communities that were serious and sparing. Electricity was still something unknown and many times I stopped to ask for water the best answer that I would get would be a mere gesture of shoulders lifting in a clear signal of "I have no idea."

An impressive and intimidating storm made me slow down the advance and following my instinct of self-preservation I stayed sheltered under a palm roof kindly offered to me by the local police. The roar of thunder and lightning which fell by where I had to pass was chilling. I was already into the full rainy season and that meant having downpours almost every afternoon. What was striking was the fury with which the water fell, which for a period of two to three hours seemed to fall in buckets. My strategy was simple: try to get under a roof during those explosions of nature and then, if possible, to continue rolling a little bit more.

The move from one ocean to another could not be exempt from the crossing of a mountain range, and was returning to the cloud forest, the cooler weather ... and the remaining strong and heavy consuming every reserve of energy to be able to go back to the "chubby" of Maira.

It rejoined the main road in the vicinity of David, the second largest city of Panama and began riding towards Penonomé, where my compromise with the kids at the SOS Children's Villages in this country was awaiting me. In these days of riding the idea was basically to advance the maximum possible kilometers per day, adjusting to the requirements of the road, the endless and exhausting undulations, the torrential rain and the extreme heat. The combination of the latter with the downpours created an atmosphere like a sauna that was suffocating.

Each day I looked for a place to spend the night without having to spend money, because the accommodations were out of my reach. The economy was in dollars, and while it was relatively inexpensive to get food, sleeping quarters, even the most basic, they were too expensive for my pockets. The National Highway Police and Fire departments became my homes away from home, providing a roof or a place to lie down. Unlike other countries, having only one option to move around meant that all these people were already accustomed to receiving long distance cyclists and it was interesting to see the effort they put into proudly recount the stories of previous guests, sometimes without giving much attention to new ones that one had to tell.

The people were quiet and I felt pretty safe on a personal level. The baseball and wool caps (incomprehensible to me with the heat in the area!) with the logo of the New York Yankees were the order of the day and I even got to ask if they were given away! It already seemed like a National Coat of Arms as I saw the NY initials printed everywhere. Bicycles, which were widely used as a means of economical transportation, wear official plates and in several occasions I was asked where was mine, without understanding very well that instead of it, I would name my bike! The sale of lottery tickets seemed the most common activity on the streets and I think I did not get to step on any store or supermarket that is not managed by Chinese. As it was pre-election time, posters of political campaigning adorned the sides of roads. Interspersed with advertisements for work performed through the income reported by the Panama Canal, the faces of the candidates look impressive in huge pictures which often lend themselves to laugh from the forced expressions, or the clearly corrupted nature conveyed from their images.

Arriving at Penonomé I completed 18,000 kilometers on the bike, which was deservedly celebrated with the usual photo taking advantage of the collaboration of the people of the SOS Village. I had a little over 150 kilometers to finish my riding through Central America and jump to Colombia to continue in South America.

The arrival in Panama City promised to be shocking. I rode through the country without having gotten into virtually any large city and was now arriving in a capital city with unique features in Central America: skyscrapers! But before getting into this urban jungle, something even better waited for me: the famous Bridge of the Americas, this colossus that connects the mainland over the entrance to the Panama Canal, opened by man to enable the naval communication between the two oceans.

The glorious crossing was affected in part by an unfortunate piece ofglass that punctured the rear tire and made me lose precious time making the repairs of rigor. Those minutes marked the difference between arriving dry or completely drenched, because I hardly took up the pedals, when the blackness of the sky fell down in a terrible downpour that left me drenched in the 200 meters that I had to do to take refuge under the roof of a service station. Welcome to Panama City! 

I expected a daunting organizational task, because from this point I had to cross into Colombia either by air or by sea. The Darien Gap, on the border between the two countries, represented an insurmountable point with no roads, the impenetrability of the jungle and its abundant natural and human hazards. It was a good bit of adventure, but going into that uncharted territory with a bicycle like mine, bordered with stupidity.

The mode of transportation was decided quickly because of its cost: the prices of the Colombian airline Aires were impossible to beat by any of the sailing ships that made the crossing safely. The people of SOS Children's Villages Panama gave me the logistical support by providing a place to stay; taking around to get the things I needed to pack up the bike and giving me a lift to the airport at 6 o'clock in the morning to make my flight!

When I had everything ready, Vivian, a sponsor of the SOS Villages, offered to take me to tour the emblematic places of the city. The first obvious thing was to visit the Miraflores lock, where the impressive engineering of the Panama Canal could be seen in their greater magnitude. It really was amazing to see the complex system designed to allow the union of the two oceans by overcoming the gap between the two, in a crusade that cost many lives throughout its development and construction. To see the huge ships pass by these narrow passages with few centimeters of margin was an unforgettable experience at the "bottleneck" of the Americas.

We toured the highlight points of the city historic center, recovered to be enjoyed by visitors, but curiously surrounded by neighborhoods not recommended for strolling. I was impressed to see the complex city that the Americans had organized and mounted in the exclusion zone of the Canal, an area that until the pass of its administration to Panama, it could not be exploited by the true inhabitants of these lands. It was one more example of U.S. interventionism in pursuit of their economic interests affecting, in one way or another, the development and the socio-political conditions of the Central American countries.

The farewell tour was touring that pseudo New York on a smaller scale between the impressive skyscrapers that are crowded into the banking center of the city, giving away an uncommon postcard in these latitudes. I felt overwhelmed by so much urbanity that at the same time it remained so close to a nature that is also savage and ferocious. On June 15, 2008 I said goodbye to Panama and Central America to begin a new stage in the journey: the journey home towards the end of South America.

Until next time!

Good Trails

Damian

An example to emulate

When I finished the presentation for the kids of the elementary school of Playa Chiquita in Costa Rica, they thanked me in a very particular way. First I was entertained with a series of songs that they sung harmoniously at the top of their lungs and then one by one, they hugged and kissed me as a farewell. But the most touching thing was when Maya, the teacher who had coordinated the visit, told me that there was something else.

It turns out that every year the kids from the school conducted an event called "the little shop" where they prepare meals and various activities to raise funds to do some recreational or study travel. Well, after having seen the videos of my visits to SOS Children's Villages, they were touched by the cause and they decided to contribute their bit. How? By donating all the proceeds from this year event to the kids of SOS Villages. A worthy example for us adults to imitate, isn’t it?



Congratulations to all these boys and girls for that altruism and selfless heart! In gratitude I want to share with them this beautiful design that a dear friend from Mar del Plata, Malena recently gave me, and who was inspired by precisely this bike ride with a social twist towards children. For you and all the kids from the SOS Village with all our affection and love!

Dedication

To my dear grandmother Aia, which after having spent the soles of her shoes in these lands, left to make company to the grandfather, back where they walk with the angels. To you, my beloved Aia, these kilometers and many more to come, are dedicated. Your memory and your spirit will continue traveling with me where the wheels take me. Good trails ... and a big hug for Aio!

Acknowledgments

To Tomas: for the camaraderie of another traveling Argentine in the Samara campsite.

To Ines and Daniel Rippe: for this new gathering of characteristic friends of the road.

To Miguel Angel and his wife: for the warm conversation we had in her shop in Candelaria, on my way to Santa Elena, and for that delicious mango and chocolate gift.

To Alexander Porras and Dona Flor: for my first invite of Costa Rican coffee, for giving me a good supply for the road, for the keychain of Saprisa gift and for sharing with me the photo of the 17,000 km.

To Ron and Shannon: for this magnificent place that is the Pension Santa Elena in Monteverde, a haven for travelers.

To Amy Slack, Niels Barth, Elmar Rieder and Moon: for this fortuitous and pleasant reunion at the Pension Santa Elena, Monteverde.

To Dein and Ana: for allowing me to stay overnight at their farm on Lake Arenal.

To Xinia Ugalde Sanchez and the students of the Technical School Aguas Zarcas: For inviting to lunch while we watched the Arenal Volcano.

To Carolina Morales, at the entrance to the Arenal National Park: for the gift book about the Arenal Volcano.

To Edgar Delgado: for those colons you gave me while climbing to Varablanca and that gave me an abundant and delicious dinner.

To Yorlenny Alpizar and Daniel Murillo: for having taken me into their home almost like a son (a little grown up, by the way) and their endless hospitality during my stay in San Jose.
To Alejandro Arley Vargas: for your deep and sincere concern for every detail of my journey and the promotion offered while I was in San Jose.

To Fanny Elizondo and the people of the National Bureau of SOS Children's Villages: for their warm reception during my visit to their facilities.

To Sergio Montero, the Scouts and Guides Costa Rica: for your hospitality, for giving me the technological means to work with the website and contacts for the road.

To David Fonseca, Pan American champion in mountain biking: for having left Maira in a better shape than when I bought it! It’s been years since it looked so flawless!

To Minor Villalobos: because without your friendship and support in San Jose, I would never have been able to overcome the difficulties that were presented. I owe to you to be able to continue pedaling beyond San Jose!

To Ivannia Cambronero, Adriana Rodriguez Lopez and the entire staff of the Regional Office of SOS Children's Villages: for all the hospitality extended to me during my visit and for conducting the coordination of my visits to the SOS Villages in Central America.

To Roger Trejos Valverde: for lending me selflessly your cell phone when I had the handlebar emergency.

To Rodolfo Soto, owner of the Ciclo los Ases: for mobilizing the staff of your shop to find a solution to the problem with Maira’s handlebars.

To Johnny Madrigal, mechanic from Ciclo los Ases and indisputable magician: for dedicating your valuable time to repair the handlebars of Maira.

To Japhy: because every encounter with you is a memorable moment and a reunion of brothers. And to Karla: for the help with the tires and the hope of a future encounter.

To Carlos Sasso and all the people of the Scout group in Siquirres: for giving me shelter and show me that they are always ready to serve!

To Saananda: for giving me a home in Playa Chiquita, for your love without limits and such passion that is hard to find in today's people. Thank you for giving me unforgettable memories and for your sincere and transparent friendship. Namaste and good trails for the roads to ride!

To Gustavo Bossi: for allowing me to use and abuse your computer and for that camaraderie and complicity typical of old friends. Best of luck for this spectacular life project that you're starting!

To Eleonora, Saananda’s sister, her partner Fred and their children Afrika, Iael, Forever and Nayla: for making me feel part of your family. Special thanks to Iael, for those questions loaded with the freshness and innocence of a child.

To Juan, owner of La Terraza restaurant in Cocles: for your spontaneous and warm reception and for the dinner you invited me with, fit for a king.

To Maya, from the school of Playa Chiquita: for allowing me to share these few moments with exceptional children. And to all those kids laden with affection and tenderness.

To Alvaro Montilla: for the life experiences shared by and the heartfelt dedication in the bandanna that you gave me in my way though Chiquita beach.

To Silvia: for your divine Iberian madness and the energy to squeeze life!

To Graciela: for that imposing personality and that unique and admirable character.

To Mercedes Miquel and Coni Guevara: for the shared evenings and the demonstration of pure beauty in the dances you did.

To Pancho Borda and Silvia Rodriguez, thank you for your invitation to Puerto Viejo that opened the door for me to meet a lot of incredible and loved people.

To Lieutenant Al Gean Carlos Cordoba and the National Police of Chiriqui Grande: for allowing me to stay overnight in his detachment on my way to the Pacific.

To Blanca Montero and Andres Lara, of Hornitos: for inviting me that great coffee in your local Cafe-Hamburguer when passing through there to Chiriqui.

To Sergio Arauz and the Fire department of Gualaca: for giving me a place to spend the night.

To Juan Carlos Barrios and Belermino Samudio, from the Highway Patrol of the National Police of Panama: for giving me shelter on my way thought Los Ruises.

To Major Flavio Vergara, from the National Police of Panama: for the lodging offered during my pass through Aguadulce.

To the Firemen of Capira: for giving me shelter one night in their station.

To Rolando Bowen: for the arrangements to get me a place to stay in Panama City.

To the people of the SOS Childrens’ Village in Panama City: for the logistical support and the lodging offered while I was in the city getting ready to cross to Colombia. And in particular, to Anayansi Mojica: for dedicating lots of your precious time to assist me.

To Vivian Vergara: for taking me to visit the impressive Panama Canal and the most relevant places of the city, and for waking up so early to take me to the airport in time to make my flight to Colombia.

To Malena Inés del Río: for your inspiration and that transparent creativity born from the deepest feelings.

Some Statistics

During this stage

Days on the road: 38

Days riding: 20

Kilometers done: 1,564 km (200 Km on gravel)

Average kilometers done per day: 78.2 km

Hours on the bike: 110h02m (4d14h02m)

Average speed: 14.2 km/h

Meters climbed: 17,983 m

Maximum altitude: 2511 msnm, Volcán Poás, Costa Rica (17-May-2008)

Since the beginning

Days on the road: 374

Days riding: 220

Kilometers done: 18.330 km - 1.700 on gravel

Average kilometers done per day: 83.32 km

Hours on the bike: 1.118h56m (46d14h56m)

Average speed: 16.4 km/h

Maximum speed: 81.5 km/h, descending from Sunwapta Pass, Canada (15-Aug-2007)

Meters climbed: 176,376 m

Maximum altitude: 3033 msnm, Alaska, towards Quetzaltenango, Guatemala (08-Apr-2008)

Times that I heard the characteristic “Pura Vida, mae!”: ufffff!!!!

Bananas: thousands, millions!!!