Purchasing a used car is usually a memorable experience. There are oftentimes unexpected
twists and turns even in a straightforward deal. My used car purchase in Costa Rica was
something I will always remember.After moving my wife and infant son to Costa Rica to start a new business, a car purchase was
at the top of my to do list. We were staying with a friend while we were setting up shop and
were soon tired of buses and taxis. We had planned on finding a house first, but soon realized
the incredible inconvenience of meeting appointments with landlords with no car. With the
househunting on hold, we began our search for the perfect vehicle.

We first had to get over the shock of having to pay an extra 40-50% due to import taxes.
There are no cars made in Costa Rica, so this applies to every make and model. A car in the
states that is worth $10,000 cost $14 or $15,000 down here. We spent the first 2 days educating
ourselves by pouring over the want ads. It was soon obvious that we would get a better deal by
looking in La Nacion for our car instead of the English paper called the Tico Times. Not only
were there many more choices, but the prices seemed lower for the same vehicle. We had
decided on some sort of four wheeled drive SUV for the safety factor. The roads contain many
potholes and often run out of pavement suddenly. Since our business led us on many
expeditions, it seemed a sound choice. Factor in the basic lawlessness of the roads due to very
little enforcement, and a strong car that sets up high is even a more obvious choice for a family
with an infant.

In Costa Rica, a lot of the business you due is done through your attorney. Litigation is rare,
and the attorneys handle most all contract paperwork including submitting paperwork for your
registration. On a previous trip, I had secured an attorney who spoke English. When I called him
about the car purchase, he walked me through it. Find the car you want, take it to a mechanic
(supplied by him) and check it out, if it’s good bring the seller and car to my office and I’ll
handle it. This was starting to actually sound easy.

Our first car we looked at was a ‘96 Toyota 4Runner. We met the gentleman at a casino
parking lot that was close to my mechanic. We had resorted to looking online after educating
ourselves on the prices in the newspaper. Online ads offered the benefit of multiple color
pictures and it was easier for me to read Spanish than speak it over the phone. This 4Runner
was supposed to be cherry with only 85,000 miles (137,000 kilometers) The pictures in the ad
were of a spotlessly pristine body and even had a shot of a really clean engine. Well, either the
car in the ad photos was a completely different vehicle, or this car had just been wrecked. The
seller was very nonapologetic, and said if the car looked like the one in the pictures; it would cost
10 million colones (20,000 dollars) instead of 7.5 mil. ($15,000) His mom or aunt was with him,
and we could see she didn’t share his business verve. She gave us some sliced mango in lemon
juice, and we just walked away shaking our heads.

The next three cars we liked were all sold by the time we got there. Finally, the car I really
wanted ( a deep green Mitsubishi Montero Sport 1999) was available for 6.9 mil.($13,800) It
was in my price range, had only 85,000 miles on it, just came in from North Carolina so it hadn’t
had to endure the potholes; and I was the first inquirer. After grilling the guy three times about
whether or not the pictures were accurate, we arranged to meet at my mechanics. I got there early
to fill my mechanic, Rodrigo, in on what I wanted checked out. Sure enough, right on time, my
future car drove in. There is something about the color of deep hunter green that has always
given such a euphoric feeling to my senses. I think that half the reason I moved to Costa Rica
is because of the deep green vegetation that is everywhere. But as MY car wheeled to a stop, this
17 or 18 year old kid jumps out. Clean cut, snappy dresser, he just looked like a player. We start
going through the “car purchase dance.” We used broken Spanish and broken English and a lot
of miming. After he showed me the elaborate 3 stage alarm system, (seriously, there are 3 levels
including a hidden switch that just cuts off all the electrical to the engine, and another that kills
the car 30 seconds after you start driving if you don’t hit another hidden switch under the seat)
I knew he was a player. But, man, I loved this car. It just looked like my car.

Now, it was Rodrigo’s turn to give me the scoop on the cars mechanical viability. I have had
cars checked out in the States before, but never to the extent that Rodrigo went through it. It was
awesome. He brought me down in the pit to look at the underside and showed me two seals and
an o-ring that needed changing; a tie rod was bent and needed changing, the oil pan shield was
missing; and a couple of various bolts & screws had been lost or fallen out. Then when he got
the engine torn apart, I watched him check compression on each cylinder; head gasket; plugs and
points for fouling; and several other minute details. The bottomline: the overall car needed some
work, but the engine was in great shape. After having Rodrigo draw up a list of the repairs with
prices, I went back to my “player” to negotiate. I wanted him to lower the price enough to pay
for the needed repairs. After some hedging, he agreed until he saw the repair bill. He
immediately flew off the handle and went charging in to Rodrigo’s office. I watched from
outside the tiny office’s large window. I have never seen two people talk so fast at the same time
with such passionate emotion. Their arms were flailing and the veins on their necks stood out.
What had I started; I was starting to get nervous. Then, as if the eye of the hurricane was upon
us, they both came calmly walking out. My “player” had broken apart each repair and negotiated
a lower price for the labor, and in three instances had agreed to do the repairs himself. So,
instead of a $450 repair, it was going to cost him $150. He had succeeded in lowering my
mechanic’s labor rate, which would end up saving me many dollars over the years. We made an
appointment to meet at my lawyers office in three days, in order to give him time to do his
portion of the repairs. I scheduled Rodrigo for the fourth day, and called a taxi,
Standing outside my lawyer’s office, I watched my car drive up with a stranger at the wheel.
He claimed to be the older brother of the player. His brother was back in the States buying
another car, and couldn’t make it. I got nervous again when he asked if I brought cash. Player’s
brother speaks perfect English, but keeps eyeing me up and down like he is sizing me up for a
quick score. I did have cash in my satchel, and quickly buzzed my attorney’s door to let us in.
My attorney, Louis, quickly took a dislike to the brother for some reason. Louis kept asking me
if I’m sure I want to buy the car, and the brother kept asking to see the cash. We spent thirty
agonizing minutes checking to see if the car’s paperwork checked out with the Cost Rican
authorities on the internet. When brother had to go out to the car to get ID to prove he was the
owner of the car, Louis turned to me and said; “ Where did you find this guy? The VIN # on the
car checks out, but someone attempted to scratch it out and it’s barely readable. IF his Id checks
out, he has changed addresses three times in the last 6 months. Plus it makes me nervous when
you bring almost 7 million colones in cash to my office.” I waited a minute and said, “ I ‘m not
buying the guy, I’m buying the car. And besides the fact that your mechanic thinks the car
checked out, that is the prettiest color of green I have ever seen on a vehicle.” First, Louis
frowned at me; then he gave the biggest belly laugh I have heard in a while and kept muttering
verde, verde. (Now, every time I go to his office; he laughs and claps me on the back as if we
had gone to school together.) Brother comes back and amazingly checks out; I give him the
cash, sign the papers , leave Louis to turn in the legal documents, and head down the street to the
insurance office.

Now, I don’t know about you, but getting car insurance in the States has never been
something I have enjoyed. I was fully prepared to suck it up and persevere. But much to my
surprise, it was one of the most pleasant experiences I have ever had in an office. After getting
buzzed in, I was setting in front of Andres’ desk within 45 seconds. He brought me a “café con
leche” , took my paperwork, and asked me one question. “ Do you want full coverage including
theft, or do you want liability? Full coverage costs $400 dollars for 6 months and liability costs
$200.” Considering the fact that in the 4 blocks that I had driven my car, I had almost been
centerpunched twice; I took full coverage. I gave him my credit card and my passport. He
refused my drivers license and said it is not necessary. Five minutes later I was insured. He
followed me out and took four pictures of my vehicle, gave me a warm handshake, and sent me
to get the safety inspection sticker.

My final leg of my car buying journey was at hand. It was equal parts impressive and chaotic.
My Spanish is a work in progress, and that was never more evident than at the RTV ( Revision
Tecnica de Vehiculos) I made sure Andres had set me up with the exact paperwork package that
I would need. So, as I pulled in to the large and impressive and very clean RTV, I felt pretty
confident. After parking, I walk up to the first line that has formed under an outside shaded desk.
Maybe it was the events of the day taking its toll, but for whatever reason; I forgot almost all of
the Spanish that I had learned. I became a numb and dumb struggling foreigner. It was
embarrassing, but I had come too far to chicken out. I handed my paperwork to the gentleman
while vaguely nodding my head to his questions. He adds a new piece of paperwork, stamps
another one of my original pieces and sends me to another line inside. I follow the same
procedure inside, with similar results. In a fading moment of clarity, I comprehend the lady
telling me in Spanish to take my vehicle around the back and get in line. I pick the shortest line
that mysteriously takes the longest time. I am looking at a building that is maybe 200 ft long and
150 ft with about 5 lines of inspection. One is for buses and trucks, one is for diesels; and I am
in the slowest of the three regular lines. It is about to get a lot slower. First station: blinkers,
lights, brake lights, seat belts, horn, etc.. With my eyes, I plead for the guy to just point to what
he wants me to do. ( I have sunk back in to my language deficient mode) Mercifully, he obliges.
Next station: exhaust, compression, smog, etc… This guy isn’t real happy with my ignorance, I
really can’t blame him. But, it is too late to back out and wait for my brain to return, because I
am in the building with a long line behind and no way to turn around. He verbally pummels me
for a bit, then just reaches in and points at the accelerator when I am to give it the gas. I pass;
he rolls his eyes and sends me to the next station. Suspension: first the front suspension and
much later the rear suspension. The car is lifted up one axle at a time and the machine slops side
to side and takes impressive computer measurements that show results on a large screen. I barely
pass this test ( my slightly bent front tie rod hasn’t been changed yet) I think he kept asking me if
I was going to change the tie rod, but my mind was more bent than the car part in question. I
don’t blame the guy for being angry, I have no business being here on this day. I pass by less
than 1% allowable shimmy, and go to the most dangerous station of all: the drive train & front
alignment. This is where my ignorance becomes more than annoying; it is dangerous. The
worker underneath my car that is straddling the pit on the narrow channels supporting the wheels,
is barking out orders to put it in gear, take it out, brake, turn the front wheels right then left, etc..
The rear wheels on two rollers lurch off dangerously when I get the command wrong. He comes
bounding out from underneath hotter than a habanero pepper. Everyone in the place has stopped
what they are doing, this is too good to miss. He is yelling at me. I turn the car off and get out.
I summons my brain to give me just a few last Spanish words today. After apologizing, I explain
that if he doesn’t get someone to operate my car for this stage of inspection; he may die.
Incredibly, he sees the logic in my argument. He even smiles at me as his coworker comes to my
aid. I am impressed by how quickly I have been forgiven. They are impressed, I think, that I
never quit smiling at them. Two more minor visual inspection stations for the motor, and I am at
the end. The man at the end looks me up and down and in perfect English says, “ Well, my
friend, lucky for you; we are inspecting the car and not the driver. Here is your sticker.” I
immediately think back to my words to my lawyer, “ I ‘m not buying the guy, I’m buying the
car.” The irony was quite humorous to me. I am really proud of that green sticker on the green
car. My car sale was now complete.

Visit Carpe Diem Trips for more…

( Our trip from Costa Rica to Panama and back to satisfy the immigration laws)

Moving my family to Costa Rica and setting up a new business has provided me with some
unusual experiences. Our shipping container laden with our personal possessions was held
hostage at the port until we paid the extra “fee” for bringing in dangerous foodstuffs like Rice-a-
Roni and instant potatoes. Instead of the same container we meticulously loaded in the states
being brought to our door as promised, we watched in shock as an old, dilapidated, open air
version of the “container” showed up three weeks late at our door. Another experience was
buying our car from a continuing rotation of different brothers who showed up at each meeting,
with each one claiming to be the owner of the vehicle. Somehow, my lawyer sorted it out; and
we took possession of our car containing the most elaborate, custom 3 pronged alarm system one
could imagine. But, our family’s forced evacuation from the country and the immigration
nuances experienced is our most recent singular activity.

The law is clear: until legal residency is achieved , a foreigner living in Costa Rica must leave the
country every 90 days for 72 hours. We knew the law, and were prepared to do so. Twice a year
we would return to the U.S. to see family and drum up business for our travel company. But,
when our business required that we stay close to home; we would just jump into Panama to the
south for 72 hours. On this our first such trip, we decided to fly a local small airlines to Bocas
del Toro. I had decided to offer this area on my travel website due to its fascinating ecological
importance. Bocas del Toro is on one of a series of 9 islands in an archipelagic formation rife
with corral reefs and colorful fish. It was perfect to add to my eco package for my website. We
had flight reservations for my wife, 4 month old son and me on Nature Air, and hotel
reservations at Hotel Bocas del Toro.

At the small Pavas airport 5 minutes from our house, we checked our luggage just barely making
it under the 30 lb weight limit allowed for each paying customer. We had to pay $26
each(including infant) in exit tax for leaving Costa Rica. The 19 passenger plane was 75% full
with French, German, and American tourists. Our flight plan took us to Limon on the Caribbean
side of Costa Rica first. The flight over the mountainous rainforest was beautiful, but on our
rapid descent to the beachside airport of Limon; our son’s ears became painfully plugged. Our
efforts to make him yawn were more comical than productive. We learned from then on that
nursing on a bottle produces similar results to a yawn. We all got off the plane to show our
passports and get the all important exit stamp to prove we left the country in time. The flight
down the coastline at low altitude was magnificent. We got incredible pictures and appreciated
the pilot letting us know he would keep the plane low enough to keep the baby’s ear from
hurting. As we landed on the small paved runway, we retrieved our paperwork for yet another
customs scenario.

As we walked in the small terminal, a uniformed customs agent informed us that only the
Americans must purchase the entrance tax of $13 each(including baby). Cash only is accepted in
the tiny office. We then take our entrance stamps to the official customs office where through a
32″ door all the luggage in random order comes through at the same time as the travelers. Our
luggage was inspected as if the contraband was coming from Costa Rica to Panama instead of the
other way around. The pleasant gentleman meticulously writing all the info from the passports
on a carbon copy pad was impervious to the not so gentle nudging by a hurried set of travelers in
our group. Even though as Americans we were the last from our plane to clear customs, our
luggage was the first inspected. That little 32″ door had more action than a flower shop on
Valentine’s Day. When they asked for my son’s occupation for the carbon copy customs pad, the
agent gave me a sneer when I said “baby.” He instead listed it as “ estudiante.” (Student)
We enjoyed our stay and found many adventures on which to send our clients. We were also able
to secure a business relationship with two fine hotels for our future clients. The food was
excellent at most of the places, but unfortunately our hotel was not one of them. Since the dollar
keeps declining in value, I kept most of my money in colones(Costa Rican monetary unit) But
Panama uses dollars and won’t accept colones. I brought a limited supply of dollars and had
planned on using my credit card for most meals, adventures and of course the hotel. As it turned
out, most of the eating establishments did not take credit cards. Therefore, on the last day, I
needed to conserve the dollars for an emergency. I thought it prudent to check with the front
desk and see if there was an exit tax at the airport. The local lady just chuckled and said, “No,
they just charge you an entrance tax if you are American.” Somewhat relieved, we used all but
$20 in cash in eating the last day.

After taking the short taxi ride to the airport, we checked our bags at the Nature Air counter.
The agent informed me that we needed to purchase our exit tax to leave the country. In another
small office, I learned that I was $25 short of the $45 ($15 each) needed. They would not accept
any credit cards, nor would they accept any of the $200 worth of colones that sat uselessly in my
wallet. The agent just smiled and told me where the bank was about half a mile away. No one
in the airport was willing to trade $25 U.S. for $50 worth of colones. With 30 minutes before
take off, all the cabs were gone and it was pouring rain. I said to myself, “ This is my job. I go
through this so none of my clients will ever suffer from a lack of information. I am blazing a
travel trail.” I situated the family in a safe spot and ran to the bank in the rain. The bank was
closed. There was an ATM, but my pin number( I never use it) was in my address book in my
luggage loaded on the plane. My savior came in the form of a clerk at a surf shop across the
street from the bank. He charged my Visa $26.25 and handed me $25 U.S. I ran back to the
airport and 20 minutes later we were in the air.

Landing in Limon on the way home, I was almost hoping for a nonexistent Costa Rican entrance
tax. Those colones in my pocket made me feel wealthy. We deplaned and went through
customs again. This time there was an intensive spot check of all of our luggage. Bringing
powdered baby formula from Panama is not the quickest way to get through customs. Luckily
the supervisor was a mother and new the smell and taste of baby formula. We then were back in
the air on our final leg. With the baby sucking furiously on the bottle, we cleared the mountains
and glided home. As we toted our luggage through the small airport towards the car, an
American tourist approached me . He needed to buy $52 worth of colones for the exit tax. I
took great pleasure in pulling those colones out of my pocket.

Randy Fauchier/ Carpe Diem Trips