I like bus rides. I like sweating in a cramped seat next to a fat local guy with too much aftershave. I like trying to sleep on a long-haul night bus while a class of teenage girls giggles and shrieks with delerium. I even like sitting on the fold out seat with no backrest for 8 hours while the packed minibus bumps and jumps down the worst dirt road I have ever been on. Generally, I also like bus stations. All the sitting around and trying to make sure you get the right ticket for the right bus to the right destination, makes you feel like you’re a real traveller. You’re not one of those soft tourists, you can tell yourself, you’re taking the people’s transit, and you are the only white person in this station.

Later today I have to go into San Jose to meet Sarah, who has flown in for a little over two weeks. Getting from here to San Jose should be a simple matter; it’s a small country after all. Of course, nothing is ever that easy. Interbus is $39 for an air-conditioned minibus, but they don’t take surfboards. Grayline charges about the same, and takes surfboards, but it’s an extra $15 for the board. The public bus is obviously much cheaper, but no one anywhere seems to know what time it leaves. I ask four people for directions, and eventually a kid from one of the restaurants takes me down to the beach at the end of the Tamarindo traffic circle, walks me past a bar, through a small assortment of dirty tents and homeless looking people, and points through a fence to a building sitting in the back end of nowhere. This is the bus station. After nearly ten minutes of trying to communicate (in Spanish) with the the guy in the ticket window, I learn that my choices are to leave at 3:30 or 5:30 in the morning. Sarah’s flight arrives at 8:30 p.m. and I do not want to spend the day in San Jose. I do not like San Jose, and would not be going into the city for anyone else. The morning buses would drop me in the city somewhere between 10:00 a.m. and noon. While this is really not such a big deal, it’s coming up on four weeks since I’ve last seen Sarah, and I had really want to be at the hotel to greet her.

Why is this not easy?

There are pitiful few options for getting out of this town. My experience in most foreign countries is that the buses are efficient and plentiful, and typically the best way to get anywhere. Costa Rica is only 280 km across at it’s widest point. This is roughly the same distance I have to travel from Tamarindo to San Jose. This is not a long way. I’m learning why a lot of people fly rather than dealing with the buses.

I’ve since made arrangements to leave my surfboard here, and have paid the $39 for the air-conditioned Interbus shuttle. I’m paying for the privilege of this leisurely breakfast, a morning swim, and not having to wake at 3:00 a.m. to catch a bus. Still, I can’t help but feeling that I’ve somehow failed at all of this. I’m supposed to be a rugged backpacker, wise in the ways of transportation and logistics, cunning and resourceful, always finding the deal that works out. This time, however, I’ve merely caved to the easy option. I’m frustrated with how this all played out, and somewhere in the middle of my second cup of coffee just now it hits me.

The last time I was this frustrated with the bus system? Three years ago, here in Tamarindo.