I got my commercial driver’s license at a time when all you needed to get it was to pay a little extra and take a written test about emergency air brakes.
No driving test. No walk-around test having to identify bus parts and their functions. No medical check up. No hoops to jump through.
If this knowledge concerns you, think about all the senior citizens on the road driving recreational vehicles the size of combines with nothing but a normal, everyday driver’s license. Yeah. Scary.
Because of my business, I need a CDL to drive decrepit school buses filled with neoprene-clad, or scantily clad, people to rafting put-ins. Their attire depends, of course, on the time of year, or whether or not it is a private or commercial river trip.
In 1998, ten of us decided to drive one of these geriatric school buses, named Frank, as far into Central America as we could. Costa Rica was the goal line because of my familiarity with it and because of the rafting opportunities. But whether or not we made it was entirely up to Frank.
And the vagaries of fate.
And, as it turns out, a German expatriate hiding out between Nicaragua and Costa Rica in No Man’s Land.
We set out for Latin America from Seattle in the fall. We allowed ourselves two months - a month to get there, and a month of exploring, rafting and acculturation.
Needless to say, there were some hiccups right off the bat.
We’d backloaded Frank with gear and people, and by Eugene, Oregon, I felt like Frank was on the verge of doing a wheelie under the right wind conditions. We spent a half day reorganizing the layout of the interior and shifting the gear we carried on the home made rack.
Several hundred miles down the road, Frank needed a new ‘bus gizmo’ in Arizona and that set us back a day. Then in Guaymas, Mexico, Frank’s whatchamacallit failed and that repair cost a day. Somewhere south of Mexico City and north of Oaxaca we started to worry about the clutch failing. I recall a bungie cord being used for some reason or other related to shifting.
Somehow, Frank trucked on through Guatemala, El Salvador and Honduras without incident but we were concerned we would not make it to Costa Rica in the month we allowed. I am glossing over details of the trip - of which there are many - because this is Frank’s story.
A few miles from the Costa Rica border, in the midst of lashing rain, in the middle of the Pan American highway, Frank rolled to an unscheduled, as well as abrupt, stop. The good news was there was little to no traffic, because the Pan American highway looked like any two lane black top in rural America. Without shoulders to use as a pullout.
The bad news was there was little to no traffic.
Unbeknownst to us - this was not pre-internet, but it was pre-ubiquitous internet - we were catching the spinoff weather from a Category 5 hurricane that had seriously slammed Central America. The weather was awful and we were not within easy walking distance of a town. In addition, the majority of my compatriots had budgeted only so much for this trip and Frank’s cantankerousness was starting to put them on edge.
Spirits remained remarkably resilient but being so close to our goal and not being able to reach it was a tad dispiriting. We played cards, nibbled on the last of the fresh tortillas and read. When the rain lightened up, we got out on the highway and tossed the frisbee.
After about a day, a light truck pulled up with a scraggly bearded German in his early 60s who spoke stilted English and broken Spanish he said he had learned by reading the local newspapers. When he spoke with his Nicaraguan friend, he peppered his conversation with “entonces” - Spanish for “then” - to buy himself time between thoughts and while he searched for the right words. It was endearing and annoying all at the same time. His friend seemed not to notice.
Karl lived in neither Nicaragua or Costa Rica but on land that was in dispute along the border. He generously offered to drive one of us to the nearest town in search of a mechanic.
Two days and remarkably, only two hundred dollars later, Frank’s clutch was rebuilt and we were back in business. We couldn’t believe our good fortune. The mechanic had to manufacture a new clutch plate from scratch and then repair it out on the highway since there were no tow rigs capable of lugging Frank back to their modest village.
Karl, and the weary mechanic, waved ‘auf Wiedersehen’ as we disappeared in a freshly invigorated Frank to the south.
Merry, as the merriest of pranksters, and thankful, to be on our way again.
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Tomorrow will be a retelling of Frank’s most catastrophic breakdown. Stay tuned.
Also, apropos of nothing, I am looking forward to a movie called, Puzzle. Unfortunately, at present, no streaming service is renting it which is strange because it is a couple of years old. But it looks engaging and perfect for those who prefer their movies without blood or gore, or high speed chases concluding in ear-splitting, teeth-rattling explosions.
Can't wait for the conclusion!
Kudos to you - and Frank!