Day 254: I left san Miguel this morning somewhat drained from the previous yesterday’s ass-kicking, but optimistic about the new day ahead. First few KM were not too bad. The dirt roads were somewhat smooth and the temps were still sub 90F. Within the first 30 minutes I came upon my first river crossing – a small shin-high passage only 25 meters across which I was able to navigate without dismounting. “So far so good” I thought. The second and third crossings of the day were the ones I had been warned about the last night and earlier this morning. These two would be anywhere from a meter to a meter and a half deep, and the first one was known to be infested with crocodiles. But they were passable – so I was told. At 10:30am – 4 KM since the last house I had passed on the narrow dusty pothole-ridden road – I reached the first of the last 2 crossings of the day. The road just seemed to drop off straight down into the river without as much as a manageable transition. My first attempt at the crossing was sans bike. Unaware of how deep the river was, I felt it wise to first walk or swim the passage to get a feel for the depth and the strength of the current. After a quick croc check, I made my first crossing in the mostly mud-bottomed river and found that the reached my nipples almost the entire way across. In addition, the current was quite strong, but not so strong as to deter me from making an attempt with the bike. I returned to the west bank, removed my handlebar bag and all electronics from the bike, stashed them somewhere in the bush for a later passage At about that time, a gigantic 4X4 pickup equipped with a snorkel pulled up alongside me. “Are you gonna cross here?” I asked. “I dunno. I was gonna watch you and see how deep it is first. I can only cross if it is waist high or lower.” I informed him that the water was well above waist high, at which point he said he would have to turn back and head for the bridge crossing 10KM further inland. Then he turned his engine off. “I thought you said you were leaving”, I said. “Yeah, but I wanna see you try and cross that thing!” he replied. After another quick croc check, I lowered the bike down to the river bank, took off my shoes, and started floating the bike across the river. The strong current and the additional drag of the bicycle and trailer conspired to alter my course, however, sending me slightly more downstream than my trial path. About midway across the river in chest high water, I found myself walking on top of rocks – some large, some small. I had taken my sandals off to make the mud crossing easier, but now I found myself walking barefoot on ‘who knows what’. The number of potentially hazardous things that could hide beneath 5 feet of murky water is endless: a rusty piece of metal from an upstream bridge; a tree with its myriad branches waiting to trip or tangle you; a crocodile. I thought about turning back or trying to alter my course, but the latter would be too hard with the current pushing me south, and the former would have made no sense. I was already half way across; to turn back would have been no safer than continuing on to the east side. My feet were now slipping and sliding in a muddle of mud and skull-sized stones. Each step was now a gamble of what my feet would find and whether or not it would support me. The bike began pulling harder downstream and my steps were now becoming more deliberate and forceful. I fought to plant my feet as firmly as possible – all the while looking about for crocodiles. That’s when it happened. I was digging my left foot deep into the muddy bottom when something rolled on top of it – something heavy. My foot was pinned between two very large stones. I pulled and pulled, but to no avail. With my left foot trapped between the rocks and the current pulling to my right, I had only seconds left before my head would become submerged unless I let go of the bike. With the same desperate panic that empowers a mother to lift a car from her only child, I pulled at both the bike and my foot with all of my might. The rock lifted just enough to free my foot, and I soon found myself on the east bank of the river – panting and in extreme pain. “No way, man!” my snorkel is 6 feet high, but my cab will fill and the computer will shut down. I can’t cross!” yelled the 4X4 driver from the other side. My electronics were still on the west side of the river, requiring two more passages – one unloaded and the other carrying the small waterproof bag. I thought about the next crossing and having to do it alone. Then I looked down. My left foot was deformed; a huge lump rose sharply from the top of it and it was already considerably larger than my right. The pain was excruciating. I yelled across the river that I thought I had broken my foot. “Come back across. You can ride in the truck with us” he replied. Accounting for the strong current and the drag of the bike, I limped slightly upstream and managed to cross safely there, avoiding the rocky area altogether. We loaded the bicycle, trailer, surfboard, and me in the bed of the truck and headed for Mal Pais. The only facility in Mal Pais was emergency clinic with no X-ray machine. I was told I could go to the local veterinarian, pay a large fee for an X-ray, and bring it back to the medics at the station for inspection. I was also told that they were fairly sure that I had at least one broken bone in my foot, and that I would need a boot. I was advised to head to the nearest public hospital – a bus ride and a ferry ride away. And “Oh, wait . . . the last bus just left.” It would have to wait until tomorrow. Picking up two tall-boys (large cans of beer) along the way, I headed for the beach to watch the sunset, wash the mud off of me, and look for a safe place to camp. A few locals sat a few meters from me and began talking. I immediately recognized one of their accents. “Where are you from?” I asked. “New York” he responded. “Me too! What part?” “Long Island” he said. “No Shit, me too. What part?” “Suffolk County. Bohemia.” At an empty beach at the end of a long peninsula in Costa Rica, I had stumbled upon someone who grew up only a few miles from me. He was one of a group of expats from the US and Canada who came to Mal Pais for a week of surfing, but never left. After learning of my situation, a friend of his invited me to celebrate Canadian Thanksgiving with them and camp at his house on the beach. “Maybe a broken foot wasn’t the end of the world” I thought. I had ridden the first three weeks of this trip wearing a cast. I could ride another 3 or 4 with a boot.
Posted on: Tue, 15 Oct 2013 16:37:49 +0000
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