We
are at the back of a long line of people waiting to punch out of Costa Rica,
and punch into Panama. It is an ostensibly pleasant 85 degrees, but humidity is
touching 95%, and in these conditions, everyone’s patience is evaporating far
quicker than their sweat is able to. The time is a little after half past 7,
and the border closes at 8. Paso Canoas is nothing like the famous border posts
of Tijuana or El Paso some 3000 miles to the north. There are no bars, strip
clubs and by-the-hour motels. When the border closes, everybody goes home, and
comes back in the morning.
The
line is moving almost imperceptibly, as we edge round the corner of a low
concrete wall on which a number of sleepy Ticos
are perched, half-heartedly trying to make their final sales of the night. We
turn down the offer of a bottle of Coca-Cola bobbing up and down in a cooler of
tepid water that may or may not have been ice at some point during the day, and
instead cast our eyes towards the front of the line to see what the delay is.
I
have made this border crossing three times during my time working in the rural
south of Costa Rica; the visa run is a tri-monthly ritual for many foreigners
who visit this country for work, rest or play. Every 90 days hundreds, probably
thousands of gringos head to Panama
in the south, or Nicaragua in the north. My visa is 87 days old, and in the
event that we don’t get across the border tonight, I will check into one of
Paso Canoas’s safer hostels, and try again in the morning. Another person must
have been successful in making it across, for at this second a ripple of
movement briefly courses through the line of people as we all shuffle forward a
pace or two. Now we can see, and even hear, the reason for the slow progress
tonight.
“You
ain’t fuckin’ listening to me, I been down here twenty goddamn years, you hear
me? 20 goddamn years! And now you’re telling me I need my fuckin’ passport to
leave this shitty country?”
The
border post at Paso Canoas is fairly efficient one, as these things go. Three
of the four service windows are occupied by stern faced but respectful
officials in impeccably pressed uniforms that appear to be impervious to the
sweat covering the waiting tourists and travellers. Sweat is visibly dripping
from the monstrous, bloated man who is physically and verbally taking up two of
the three windows. His legs are planted wide apart in a stance of aggression
possibly learned many years ago on a wrestling mat somewhere in middle America,
but more likely to support his significant bulk. His t-shirt is stretched taut
across his misshapen torso, extolling the virtues of Rhino Charger Sport Fishing, Tamarindo Costa Rica, and a faded and
battered baseball cap adorns his bald pate, despite the sun dipping down below
the horizon over an hour ago, as it does every day of the year here in the
Tropics.
“-Apologise,
sir, but without a passport you cannot go beyond this point, perhaps-”
The
heavily accented but grammatically flawless words of a female border official
float along the line. Those of us not already clutching our passports absentmindedly
pat our pockets and open our bags to ensure they are in reach, and of course
they are, for who would attempt to cross an international border without a
passport?
“-You
have your tarjeta de residencia
costarricense with you?”
This
border official is being remarkably courteous and polite in the circumstances,
but standing her ground. Her opponent however, perhaps in the way he took on
rival wrestlers in his younger days, for better or worse, remains on the
attack.
“Do
I look like a fuckin’ tee-coh to you? I’m an American!”
The
nationality of this gladiator man comes as no surprise to anyone in the
audience, but the way in which the words are brandished like a weapon, aimed at
this border official like a battering ram, draw sighs and looks of contempt
from some. Much to the surprise of nobody except he who uttered them, these
words hold no magic power here in Paso Canoas. The drawbridge does not open,
and the border official calmly asks the man to stand aside so that she may
assist someone who has the required documents. There is general murmur of
agreement at this and the line shudders forward another two feet or so. The
American is almost apoplectic with rage at this point, and with a final throw
of the dice, produces a battered mobile phone, and makes some threat about
“taking this shit as high as it needs to go” as he waddles toward a bench along
the back wall of the customs and immigration area. Satisfied that this
particularly piece of street theatre has run its course, business as usual
resumes at three of the four service windows, and we cross into Panama around 9
minutes before 8pm.
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