March 2002
The Last Qualifying Statement on Costa Rica
Day 4
More of the same.

We ate the same food, three meals a day. All of the food consisted of heavy starches and fats with no citrus or fiber. Don't even TRY to tell me that any of you KNOW about constipation.

Word around the campfire was that they were busing all of the Nicas to the border on this day – Thursday. Across the common area, in an open cell by himself, was Messed, a Turk, that the Costa Rican authorities were holding and accusing of being a terrorist and conspirator in the 9/11 attacks. I never saw any proof. Messed always had food brought from the outside, everyday. It looked kind of fishy, but who am I to judge, especially when a lot of Ticos think that Canada borders Nicaragua.

One day a Nica went into Messed's open cell and tried to steal his watch. I saw the whole thing. The other Nicas started screaming for the guard, William. William beat the Nica with some sort of cane. He brought blood. I was indifferent. The Nica deserved it. These Nicaraguan guys, with their lack of formal education and social graces, at least seemed to have a sense of right and wrong.

That day, I started to feel it happening: I was starting to accept the fact that I might be here for three or four months just like Peter and just like Anthony. I took a shower. I started scraping my shank across the floor – just in case the war broke off. Now, it wasn't Midnight Express and it wasn't American Me, but it could have been.

Day 5
The Nicas were all bused back to the border. Things got a lot quieter. Messed left. I moved from Club Nica to a smaller cell in the back with Andrew, Venco, and the rats. I still hadn't been called into Immigration and I was starting to get worried. It was Friday, and if the day passed with no word I knew that I would be there for the weekend.

Just after lunch, they called me into the office. I thought this was it: Sign the deportation form and get the hell out of there. The Immigration Officer looked at my "file." Yes, kids, I have a "file" about three inches thick with the Costa Rican Government, and I haven't even committed any crimes, other than overstaying my 90-day visa.

He asked me how I had re-entered the country after the occasion of my second deportation. I just looked at him and said, "I never left." He glared at me for a minute and said, "You'll be taken to the embassy on Monday and then you are ready to travel."

I went back to my cell. I thought, Miami was my point of departure from the US. I had a friend about two hours away. My job owed me a $250 paycheck. Things could be worse.

Day 6 & 7
It was the weekend. I slept, played cards and drank jailhouse hooch mixed with real liquor. I thought about getting a tattoo of a spider web on my elbow (just kidding). Venco, a Macedonian, and our third cellmate was driving me up the wall. He always took his meals in a plastic grocery bag and he ate with his hands and after he finished his meal, he would lick his hands and fingers like a cat.

Day 8
Nobody from Immigration came to get me and nobody knew what was going on. I was getting irritated. I paced around with my hands in my pockets and talked to Peter about coming to the United States and about this place.

I was inquiring as to why a doctor was coming in everyday; it seems that a Nica died from lack of treatment. He had pneumonia or some such consumption and he was vomiting on himself. The Tico doctor came and then refused to treat the guy. The Nica subsequently died. Peter witnessed this whole thing. Human Rights came in to investigate. Now, a doctor came everyday or every other day to examine everyone. Human Rights had interviewed Peter and asked if he would give a sworn statement as to what he had seen. He agreed. I don't think that he knew it but this would be his ticket out. THIS would light a fire under some Tico ass.

Day 9
It was Tuesday. About 10am, two Immigration Officers came to pick me up and they took me to the US Embassy in Pavas, San Jose. Now is when I have to get xenophobic.

The Tico lady that worked the American Services window had the balls to ask me why I kept coming back if I kept getting deported. I said, "BECAUSE I CAN." I am of the opinion that you should NOT work for the US Embassy if you ARE NOT an American. PERIOD.

And, it wasn't the same consulate. I had been there several times before and the consulate, a young guy with blond hair and glasses, was always cordial and helpful. This time I got his gimpy little 19-year-old cousin, and I was already way past put-out and this guy wasn't being ANY help. He did, however, let me call the States. I only got an answering machine, but it's the thought that counts.

Day 10
It was on this night that I saw the rats.

Big, ugly, non-fearing rats, the kind you find in a Stephen King story. The guards had left our cell open, so I was utilizing the women's bathroom because by this time we had gotten hold of some bananas, milk and sugar, and all of the things that make your bowels move. I was sitting on the toilet. The bathroom has no door. By the faint light from the police sub-station that shows through the entire place after lights out, I saw the rats – and they saw me. They squeaked around. I couldn't move because I was in mid-movement. They got all the way to the entrance, and then I guess that they decided that I had nothing to eat and was nothing to eat and I smelled, so they turned and waddled away.

Day 11
I went back to the Embassy with Acuña, my escort to Miami. He needed to pick up his visa. He bought me lunch. I was feeling better, just a little worried that I couldn't get in touch with my friend when I had called from the Embassy. Basically, this was just a free trip to Miami for Acuña and an easy US visa to boot. Maybe this was why I was actually being deported.

They sent Peter back to Peru on this day. It was the Human Rights thing that got the whole process going. They figured if they could get him out of the country quickly, then Human Rights would forget about him. We shook hands and said good-bye and promised to stay in touch. We have.

Day 12
Goin' to Miami... Welcome to Miami... Bienvenidos a Miami.

I was up bright and early. I didn't eat breakfast. All I had was the clothes that I was wearing and $250 cash and I didn't care – just get me out of here.

Acuña showed up about 7am just like he said that he would, and we went to Juan Santamaria Airport. We were ushered through. This was the important business of deporting a heathen Gringo.

I tried calling my friend in Florida and again I got the machine. I left a message saying that I should be in Miami at 3pm EST. We got on the plane and they wouldn't serve me booze because I was being deported. We entered Customs and one of the Customs guys wanted to give me a hard time about the whole thing, but his boss 86'ed him and let me go about my business. It was 1:30pm and I was completely through the whole process. I was back in the States after two tours of duty in Costa Rica, and an hour and a half early at that. We had flown LACSA. We made good time considering that it was a company run by Ticos. I wandered to the nearest airport bar and ordered a Budweiser and wondered if my friend had gotten my messages and waited... I had until 3pm.

Questions?
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