In which we miss the bus, get scammed, and wander the streets of Cancun at midnight.

After nearly three months spent in Costa Rica, it was now time for us to depart for Belize. We had plans to visit Honduras, but due to its rating of level 3 on the U.S State department security warning list, we had to change those plans. To save money, I decided to fly through Cancun Mexico, and then bus our way down to Belize (sounds great on paper!). This way I could also visit the world famous cave diver Sam Meacham and hear about his scientific and conservation work in the cenotes of Mexico (the second longest caves in the world, and possibly soon to become the longest).

Our tickets for Mexico departed from San Jose Costa Rica at 7:30 pm Oct. 30th. Instead of staying a night in the capital city, we decided to stay one more night in the beautiful mountain village of San Gerardo de Rivas, and then get up early and catch the bus to San Jose.

We woke up at 5:30 am, packed all our belongings, and headed out the door by 6:20. The bus, according to the Cloudbridge Nature reserve chart left at 6:50 AM.

“Are we going to make it?” asked Mo.

“Yes, there’s the church, and the bus stop is right near to it,” I said calmly, not feeling so calm myself. Maybe we should have got up a little earlier? A few minutes later we arrived. It was 6:40. Plenty of time to spare. But the bus? Nowhere in sight. After waiting a few minutes with mounting anxiety, I went into the grocery store and asked,

“¿A qué hora sale el Autobus?” With a pitying look the grocery answered,

“A las seis y media.” The schedule was wrong! I knew I should have asked around. I knew I should have made certain. But here we were.

“¿Y…a qué hora sale el próximo autobús?” I asked tentatively.

“A las diez.”

I went back outside to report the heavy news to Mo. We had hours of waiting ahead of us. Thankfully our flight didn’t leave till the evening. So, if we caught the 10 O’clock bus to San Isido, and then boarded the 1:30 bus for San Jose, we should arrive in the capital city around 4:30 which would give us PLENTY of time to catch a taxi to the airport—or so I thought. We walked about a mile down the mountain to the local Estrella Bakery to wait out the time.

We ate amazing fresh sourdough and local goat cheese for breakfast. Really not a bad alternative to riding in the crowded bus. At 10 our bus finally came, and we boarded it with no trouble at all. In San Isidro we picked up the next bus to San Jose with no difficulty. This time I booked seats online so we wouldn’t have to stand on our feet for the three-hour journey (the things you learn by traveling!).

The bus began its ascent up the winding roads into the mountains toward San Jose. The hot weather of San Isidro soon turned cold, and rain pelted the bus. All the open windows were quickly closed. Up and up the bus went, till the forest changed into bushes, dwarfed by the elevation of 10,000 ft above sea level. Time passed, and the bus seemed to drive on forever. I admit that anxiety had started to mount, just a little. I had made the mistake of missing the morning bus, how did I know that THIS bus would ONLY take three hours? In fact…was this bus only three hours long? I confess to checking the clock more and more frequently. It was already 3:00 PM and we hadn’t reached the halfway point.

My mind raced through alternatives. Catch a taxi as soon as we arrive at the bus terminal. With flickering phone service, I checked the distance to the airport: about 20 minutes from the bus terminal. If we missed our flight, that would mean finding a hostel in San Jose at the last minute, and staying there until we could rebook tickets to Cancun. This would mean losing the value of the plane tickets, plus the airbnb I had already booked in Cancun. Ok, I thought. There’s still a chance we’ll catch the flight.

We arrived at the halfway point in cold pouring rain. Everyone got off the bus for restrooms and a snack. I was going to buy something hot for us, but last time we almost got left behind by the bus. Instead, I bought us some coconut cookies.

It seemed like forever before the bus driver got back into his seat.

"By that time, we could have eaten breakfast, lunch, and dinner, dessert included.” I whispered to Mo.

After the midway point the road began to descend towards San Jose. The trouble is that the trip started to slow even more as people began to get off the bus every couple hundred yards. We were still an hour away from San Jose, and it was already 4:30. There was no way we’d make it to the airport with the recommended three hours to spare on international flights. But maybe it was worth still trying our luck? I signed in online, realizing that we could check into our flight before arrival. I filled out all our information until it came to nationality. Apparently, the ticket thought we were mexican. The only way to change this was in person at the check in both. Darn it!

Traffic. Another variable I hadn’t thought of till now. What a day. As we got closer and closer to San Jose the bus moved slower and slower. It was rush hour. Was it even worth going to the airport at all at this point? Or would we just waste the expensive taxi fees going to and from?

The bus FINALLY arrived at the terminal at 6’ O’clock. We waited for what seemed like a painfully long time for the rest of the passengers to disembark, then we grabbed our luggage and rushed through the bus terminal. Taxi drivers were waiting in long lines outside the building. I caught the eyes of the first I saw.

“How much to go to the airport?” I asked (taxi drivers are notorious for scamming, and I wasn’t going to get caught today.)

“It’s set by the meter,” he said, gesturing to the dashboard where a meter sat. All taxis are government regulated with a meter in an attempt to standardize rates (largely unsuccessful).

We were desperate to get to the airport so I didn’t press him for a price, trusting that the meter would do its job. We got in the old beaten up taxi and set off. Was there a chance?

The driver was friendly and talkative. I conversed with him in my limited Spanish. Meanwhile we sped towards the airport.

“You need three hours for an international flight,” he chided me.

“I know.” I replied. He asked where we were from, and where we were going. I answered warily, not wanting to share too much. But he seemed friendly and trustworthy, telling me about his life in San Jose, and how he had been a tractor trailer driver until a serious accident in which he was in the hospital for five months.

He reached up to the meter and turned it off.

“The meter doesn’t work outside the city district,” he said, “and the airport is outside of the city district.” I was so preoccupied with getting to the airport in time that I didn’t think anything of it at the time.

“How much?” I asked. As we pulled into the airport.

“45,000 colones” he replied.

“45,000 colones?” I repeated with incredulity, and a sinking feeling. This was equivalent to $90 for a twenty-minute taxi drive.

“45,000 colones” he said.

“That’s really really expensive.” I said, “I don’t have 45,000 colones, I only have 17,000.” I rummaged through my bag, stress pouring through my veins. Now any chance of catching the flight was over, instead we had to deal with a scam taxi driver. I rummaged in my bag and came up with $30 USD. He put it into a calculator, rounding my numbers down, frowning. He gestured to the binoculars my mom gave Mo.

“No.” I said, annoyance and panic building. This was ridiculous.

“That’s all I have,” I said, handing him the cash which amounted to about $65 USD. He shrugged his shoulders, then helped us take the bags out of the car. I shook his hand, still perceived as we ran into the airport. Some people seem so nice but can’t be trusted.

The airport was empty, thank goodness. The ticketing agents, though, were in no rush to help us, perhaps even finding amusement at our stress. Eventually we got through, and by some miracle arrived at our gate with half an hour to spare. Relief poured over me. Oh, my goodness! We made it.

After a two-hour flight we made it to Cancun. The long and unnecessarily stressful day of travel Mo had was ready for a good night of sleep.

We got through customs by 11 Pm. Instead of waiting for the midnight bus to Playa del Carmen, we jumped in a shuttle. After about an hour, the shuttle dropped us off in Playa del Carmen. Our airbnb, as it turned out, was about a mile walk from the drop point. Since I didn’t get any pesos out at the airport ATM, we had no way to pay for a taxi. Besides, I still had a rather sour taste in my mouth from taxis.

So we shouldered our backpacks, and started to make our way through the streets. When we finally made it to the given address, we looked around for the door to enter the courtyard as described in the listing.

“Next to construction,” it said. There was certainly construction. There was construction everywhere. But there were definitely no hotels or airbnb-like buildings anywhere.

“Maybe it’s down the street?” I asked Mo. We walked down the street. Nothing. We walked all four directions. Nothing. We asked the clerk at the gas station (One of the few businesses still open at 1AM). Nothing. Nooooooo.

It was a scam. The airbnb had zero rating. Somehow we had overlooked that in booking. And now what? This part of town was not a tourist area. There were no stores or restaurants, just big walled courtyards under construction, and homeless people sleeping on the street.

We walked to the nearest hostel, another mile away. We rang the doorbell. Eventually the host answered, saying he had no room.

“Maybe we should just sit down on the street and wait for morning,” said Mo.

“No, let’s try again.” I said.

The next hotel was about a mile away, if this one was closed, we were nearer to a district full of hotels. Surely one of them would have an open lobby. At this point price didn’t matter, we just needed a place to lay our exhausted bodies.

Finally, with aching shoulders we arrived at the Santa Anita hotel. The lights in the lobby were off, but I knocked anyway, hoping against all hope that someone would answer. Nobody. Just as I was turning away to enter the next hotel in Google maps, a man popped out of the closet half asleep grabbing his keys to open the door.

What joy! He had an open room! Within minutes we found ourselves laid on a clean bed so thankful to have found a place to stay after a very long day of travel.

We slept deep that night. Grateful for the privilege of a bed and a safe place to sleep. Santa Anita is now our patron saint.