The theme picture (above) is a photo of one of our table tops we built when we were customizing the interior of Frank. The writing is smudged and bleary due to sweaty forearms during card games, or late night drinking spills, or, honestly, who knows? Bucky Klein and Ally Kauffman were the artists and chroniclers of our journey via the table top.
The rest of us focused on this cutting edge means of expression called an online blog.
You can see Hurricane Mitch in the corner to the right. An inset map of Costa Rica, detailing our random peregrinations over the month we spent there, was drawn to the left. And sprinkled throughout is commentary like, “It rained a whole fucking lot.”
And, of course, “Donde es el mecanico?” Which may not be the correct Spanish but it was one of our most used phrases. Along with, “Cerveza, por favor!”
With a new clutch plate created out of whole cloth by an industrious Nicaraguan mechanic, Frank was better than ever. We ditched the bungie cord and marveled at the ease with which the gears engaged. The old bus had a new lease on life.
We crossed the border into the promised land we had been angling toward for what seemed like an eternity and continued to put the thirty year old bus to the test. Into the highlands and down to the lowlands. Out of the lowlands and into the highlands. And back again. Around and around roundabouts in the capital, San Jose, daring commuters to not allow us to change lanes.
We drove to the east coast, we drove to the west coast. We even coaxed Frank down the narrow, rock strewn road to the launch site for the Pacuare River without even knowing whether there was any way to turn it around to drive it back up.
We visited every region we could reach by road. From Guanacaste in the northwest to Cahuita National Park in the southeast. Frank chugged along like a champ. Not a single issue to report. We grew comfortable with the idea that after four catastrophic mechanical failures over the course of our journey we were going to make it to the conclusion without a fifth.
When we reached the town of Quepos our travels were nearing an end. We rafted the Naranjo River with the local river outfitter, Amigos del Rios, and explored Manuel Antonio National Park. The next day, we sold our rafts and rafting gear to Amigos and started our drive back toward San Jose.
We were returning to the highlands by way of an undeveloped coastal road. Though undeveloped, it was a well maintained, gravel surface without potholes or a washboard effect. A local had suggested it as a sleepy alternative to the highway which seemed propitious because Andrew Holm’s girlfriend wanted to learn to drive the bus.
Propitious because Andrew and Belinda were going to stay on in another tourist town and utilize Frank as a shuttle bus. As a river guide, Andrew was very familiar with Frank, but it was Belinda’s inaugural turn behind the wheel.
We had ten miles to cover between Quepos and Parrita, the next town to the north. We were a few miles out of Quepos. Everything was going fine with Belinda in the driver’s seat, other than the occasional “grind’em until you find’em” moments, which would cause me to involuntarily wince and mutter beneath my breath. Halfway across a small bridge, no more than two bus lengths long, we heard a thunderclap simultaneous with a jolt and Frank snapped to a halt.
Everyone looked at one another wondrous there were no injuries and no part of the interior of the bus, as far as we could tell, was damaged. From inside the bus we quickly came to the conclusion the engine appeared to be intact, and that the gas tank could not have exploded or we would’ve been engulfed in flames and the drive line may have fallen off but it wasn’t jutting through the floor.
I haven’t mentioned this before but the sum total of our mechanical knowledge on this trip was equivalent to our fluency in Spanish. Pretty close to nada.
We stepped out of the bus gingerly to assess our predicament or why had Frank stopped like he’d run into a brick wall.
What we found was that the air tank, used for the air brakes and located on the driver’s side about halfway between the front and rear bumpers was. . . demolished. Caved in. Mangled beyond our ability to repair. It looked like Godzilla had tried to indelicately replace Lady Liberty’s torch. After a bit of head scratching, we determined at least one of the twelve by six boards that formed the bridge had not been nailed down. The un-nailed down board see-sawed up as we drove across and slammed into the air tank.
Without air, the brake pads clamp to the brake drums tighter than the pursed lips of a parsimonious parson.
It was dire.
On top of Frank being dead in the water, he was dead in the middle of a one lane bridge. We needed a solution fast.
It did not take us long to discover we could pull the brake pads away from the brake drums with our knowledge of z-drags, trucker’s hitches and pulley systems. So, we set about doing so.
Once again, it was a good news, bad news scenario. We could drive Frank. But we couldn’t stop Frank. (This is where I need to insert the “Don’t try this at home!” caveat.)
We continued on our way traveling as close to a snail’s pace as possible. We cried out to people we saw along the way in our pidgin Spanish, “Is the road flat ahead?” I think we probably mimed it as much as said it. Those that responded seemed to agree or comprehend by saying, “Si! Si! Es plano!”
It boosted our courage and we kept pushing forward. The road remained remarkably flat.
As we approached Parrita, yet another one lane bridge loomed. The repair shop we had been told about lay immediately on the other side. This time there was oncoming traffic. The driver at the time, Mike Montague, his forehead damp from the stress of it all, ferociously flashed the head lights. At first we thought we could make it on to the bridge before the vehicles on the other side. Frank was barely moving, so a couple of us thought we could leap out and heroically throw something in front of the wheels to stop it. We tried one small log but to no avail. Frank bumped over it and proceeded onward. Nothing else was at hand.
Mike didn’t have a choice. He slammed the gears into reverse. Frank noisily clanked and shuddered to a halt. I don’t remember how close we were to the bridge, but we were close enough. We hated abusing Frank’s brand new clutch but we hadn’t an alternative.
Once the traffic died down, we limped him across the bridge to a repair shop that, from the outside, did not look promising. For one thing, it was minute. A shed really. For another, what was predominantly damaged on the air tank were about a dozen brass fittings. Each one a different shaped brass fitting.
I stepped into the one room shack about as dubious as I have ever been. Eeyore to the nth degree. But when I closed the door and turned to meet the mechanic, I looked around in amazement. Every wall held more than a half dozen rows of a variety of brass fittings. The only place that didn’t have brass fittings were the doors.
Two days and two hundred dollars later we were on the road to San Jose.
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Since I mentioned Godzilla, I have to link you to a great short film from 1969. It’s short. Really short. One of my all-time favorites.
Also, I really wanted to rant today. The surreal-ness of our surreality these days is overwhelming. Several of my alert readers have sent me this article that should not go unnoticed or unread. And, if you can support a publication, I recommend The Atlantic or The New Yorker.