Half an hour into the journey and Dave, sitting up front alongside Chico, wished that he had sat in the back with Al. Almost gleefully Chico informed him that Costa Rica had the world's highest auto fatality rate.
'But hey, don't worry,' he added. 'Range Rover is very good car for Costa Rican roads. Is English car, but very tough. I think maybe roads in England are as bad as here. English drivers too. But is no problem in Range Rover. This is car that say get the fuck out of my way, hombre.'
Highway Three from the central highlands of San Jose down to the coast, was a two-lane blacktop with steep drops and sharp bends. It was in reasonable condition only as far as Carara. From there on Chico halved his speed to take account of the many potholes, some of which would have broken the axle of a lesser vehicle. One volcano-sized crater bounced everyone off the roof, awakening Al from his crapulous sleep-off.
After a moment or two, he said weakly, 'Gotta get out.'
Chico glanced back across his shoulder, saw the color of his passenger's face, and steered hard to the right off the road, pulling up close to a steaming stew of swampland.
Al opened the door and forgetting the height of the car, half stepped, half fell onto the ground.
Chico watched as he staggered toward the edge of the swamp and then, laughing, lowered the window to call out after him, 'Watch out for crocodiles and boas.' He looked at Dave and let his eyes roll for a moment. 'Aiee. The boas, they are worse than the crocs. Very aggressive.'
'But they're not poisonous.'
'Maybe so, Senor Dave, but they still have teeth. Such teeth they have. You give me a choice between being bitten by a boa and a viper, every time I will choose the viper.'
Lurching to a halt, Al leaned forward, his hands on his knees, and began to throw up. Dave got out of the car to take a leak, and then meandered over to Al's one-man huddle.
'You all right?'
Al was still retching and Dave felt his nostrils prickle with disgust as a strong smell of nail polish wafted his way. It was the stink of guaro. The stuff was coming back up from Al's gut as neat as if he was pouring it straight from the bottle.
'All right?' Al groaned a bitter laugh. 'I'm about thirty fucking clicks west of there,' he said breathlessly and then retched some more.
Dave said, 'Someone ought to record that sound. A sound effects guy for a movie. Last night, on the hotel room cable channel, there was this movie with Mel Gibson? At the end they tear his guts out and burn them in front of his face. They could sure have used you in the recording studio, Al. That is one medieval sound. Could be the start of a whole new career for you.'
'Thing about throwing up... is not to give up on it... before you're done... otherwise it don't achieve what it's supposed to...' Even more retching. 'Matter of fuckin' stamina.' He belched, retched again and then spat several times. 'Don't quit on it... before you're through... less you have to...' A last heaving, coronary of a gag. '... Or you just have to repeat the process...'
Panting, as if he'd sprinted the hundred, Al straightened up, took a deep unsteady breath, and grinned horribly.
Dave swallowed uncertainly and said, 'Jesus Christ, Al, you should puke for America.'
Dave knew very little about the boat they had come down to fetch back to Miami. And every time he asked, Al told him to wait and see. But nearing Quepos, on a road so thick with dust Chico had the headlamps on, Dave said, 'This is a long way to come for a fucking boat.'
'Ain't you heard? Broke don't get to pick.'
'Yeah, but look at this place.'
They were driving past a warren of houses built on stilts and connected with a virtual freeway system of planks and corrugated iron sheets.
'Kind of a boat are we going to find down here anyway? Fucking banana boat. Sampan maybe. Jesus.'
The dirt road led past the fishing village and through extensive mangrove swamp.
'Fucking airboat is what you need down here,' complained Dave and irritably slapped something crawling on his neck.
'Told you to use that Avon shit. Me, I ain't been bitten once.'
'The bug that bit you would probably die of alcohol poisoning.'
Al shrugged and said, 'Feelin' better, as a matter of fact. A nice cold beer would slip down a treat.'
Dave caught a glimpse of a crocodile as, disturbed by the Range Rover, it slipped into some brackish water.
'The horror,' he muttered darkly. 'The horror.'
'The fuck you talkin' about? Relax will ya? We're nearly there.'
The road led south along a beach-front drag.
'Is Quepos,' grinned Chico. 'The town. It is nothing to write home about, no?' He turned into a large harbor north of a bridge. 'But here is better. Here has been a lot of development. Lots of gringo tourist fishermen. December through August. Snapper, amberjack.'
Suddenly Dave saw why they had come, for the bay was bristling with the marlin towers and flybridges of dozens of long-range luxury sport-fishing boats, some of them worth a million dollars or more.
