I had known from glimpses at my map that the pacific highway 34 intersects the Pan-American at Palmar Norte. I had anticipated a mighty thing, pulsing with banana-laden semis, flatbeds transporting chunks of space shuttle, huge tankers distributing imported spice of life. The Great Pan-American would span six lanes at least, and I would glide down a broad shoulder, unnoticed amongst the general hub-bub of the road.

Har har!

While mostly flat and well-paved, the highway lacked any shoulder aside from a white stripe dotted with reflectors, designating the absolute edge of the pavement. Fortunately, the trucks and busses roaring by on the narrow two-lane road were courteous and mindful of my peddled sojourn, and the only true obstacle was the sheer distance to Golfito. The cycling elite would certainly sneer - 50 miles? Child´s play! - but to them I say happily: sit on it and rotate!
You won´t catch me in spandex and clip-on´s anyday.

I stopped in Chacarita, where the road deviates west to the Osa Peninsula, and talked for a while with two dudes hitchhiking on the roadside. They were from Vermont and were just returning from Panama City. One of them, with a bushy beard and stretched earlobes, pluckled out a bluegrass tune on a gas-can banjo and the traffic wizzed by. They were heading north to join a travelling circus from Guadelajara.

Godspeed!

About two hours later I reached the Briceño, where a shoddy dirt road made a shortcut of 12 kilometers to Golfito. By highway, 26 kilometers remained. Jose had warned me about the shortcut, repesented by a brown dotted line on my map. It was dangerous, plagued by ill-intentioned peon peasants, and very hilly. But standing there on the roadside, burning beneath a cruel midday sun, Jose´s advice seemed far-away and diluted. I turned down the dirt path.

About a hundred meters down the road I passed an old Tico walking his bicycle out of a church. His right arm was amputated just above the wrist. I asked him in wack-Spanish about what lie ahead. His bright eyes lit up and he gestured wildly with his severed appendage as he spoke: ¨Es mas cerca...(Spanish blah blah blah)...muchas cuestas...(blah blah)...muy malo.¨
He punctuated the notion by drawing his blunt nubbin slowly and deliberately across his throat, grinning savagely from ear to ear.

I took the long way.

The ride was beautiful. Densely jungled mountains, home to the indigenous Borucas, towered to the east, draped in heavy grey clouds. Trees of mango, papaya, palm, and a cannabis look-alike lined the long, tiring road. A light drizzle graced me for the better part of an hour as I topped the winding coastal range, dropping down for several gravity-driven kilometers into the bayside fishing town of Golfito.

In 1938, the multinational United Brands fruit company established a factory in Golfito, exporting bananas and bringing prosperity and education to the small village. UB relocated its factory near Palmar after a three month long strike in 1985, leaving Golfito in shambles. The town declined into alcoholism, mass unemployment, crime, and prostitution. In the early 1990s, the Costa Rican government established the Deposito Libre, a tax-free shopping compound in northern Golfito which resembles both a carnival and a concentration camp.

With the improving ecomony from the influx of tourists and Tico shoppers, Golfito now enjoys a cleaner but not yet pristine image. Half the town feels like the Central American version of a squatted art colony in Kreuzberg. On the forested hillside, the former estates of UB executives stand vibrantly in myriad shades of pastel. Rusting fishing boats creak against a weathered dock. Remenants of old Golfito crumble like pre-colonial ruins on the roadside, consumed by vines and vegetation.

A banner hangs over mainstreet, ironically reading: ¨Golfito - Limpio y Bonito¨

I got a budget room and wandered around town. After dark, I found a small cantina and ordered an Imperial. It was a gringo bar, as it turned out, and the middle-aged woman sitting next to me struck up conversation. She was the new owner, as of a few days ago, and they were throwing a birthday party for one of the bartenders. She offered me some spagetti and garlic bread. Giant squid-like fishing lures hung from the ceiling by the hundreds. I mentioned my next destination, Pavones, and she referred me to Capitan Dan, who could be found around noon drinking at a fisherman´s bar down the road.

¨Macrocosm is in the Microcosm and thus you get to God.¨ -Sufi proverb

written by  chaddeal on January 19, 2009 from Golfito, Costa Rica
from the travel blog: The Great Pan-American Synchronistic Cycle Extravaganza Unlimited
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Golfito Limpio y Bonito, is a cleaning campaign that started the 2° week of january, Golfito enterprises and the Tourist Information Center are cleaning beaches, roads, green zones, planting ornamental plants, etc

written by  Andrea on January 29, 2009

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