When You Have to Just Trust a Perfect Stranger

I do have more to add about the car. When I bought the car, the prior owners promised me that they would share the contact info for THE BEST MECHANIC in Nicoya. Not only were his skills surpassed by none, but he loved this car. I thought of a first born being abducted and cruelly separated from its grieving parent, as they assured me that Ariel needed to continue his relationship with the car. And a good thing too; the car would need to be inspected (the dreaded Reteve annual inspection that no gringo without connections and even some Ticos would never pass) in Nicoya by the end of September.

As September drew nearer, I began to squirm at this prospect waiting for us in Nosara. My brain flitted through evasive maneuvers, but upon my tentative request to the current owners, I was told no, it could not be done early–this task would fall to us.  No problem, just call Ariel, who speaks zero English. He would then take the car to Nicoya for a day or two, look it over to make sure it would pass (which it would–he LOVES this car), and return it to us with a Reteve sticker for maybe a hundred dollars.

Upon inquiring around town after we arrived, we received a few more  emphatic affirmations that we should NOT undertake this task by ourselves. You’ll never pass, they’ll fleece you for everything you’ve got, it will take hours, maybe days, and you still won’t pass. Not much Spanish? Forget about it!

Given that I get a bit queasy about Spanish phone calls at my current level of comprehension, I did what any cornered animal would do.  I plugged in my proposal to itranslate and sent Ariel a text. Would he come and take the car to its Reteve inspection in the coming weeks? Con mucho gusto, he replied cordially, should he see about the next available appointment? He texted later with the news that he would need to take the car on Friday evening for an appointment at 11 AM on Monday morning.

On Friday, I attended my Spanish class and was asked by my teacher what I was doing that weekend. In halting Spanish, I explained that I hoped it would not rain as we would be sin carro for the weekend. I further explained that mi mecanico would be taking the car that afternoon and returning with it on Monday. Ahhh, said my teacher archly, is your mechanic going on a vacation with his family, by any chance? After poking me with images of blaring speakers on the roof, scantily clad chicas in the back, and my mechanic swilling cervezas behind the wheel of our party bus in downtown Nicoya, he reined himself in. But of course, you’ve met this man? Never, I replied, feeling a bit like a buffoon.

Ariel arrived at his appointed time, and I felt better just looking at him. He seemed like such a nice guy, and he set about looking the car over with an easy familiarity. Despite the fact that I couldn’t understand a word he said, he did manage to convey that the car needed four new tires without which it would never pass. He did have them in stock, luckily, and he could install them before the inspection if I could pay him now 800 dollars. I thought of my Spanish teacher as I rummaged around in my safe. I handed Ariel the keys, eight hundred dollar bills, and bade him a safe journey with my many thanks.

When I arrived to my Spanish class that Monday morning, I could barely contain my smugness as I related the story to my disbelieving teacher. Ariel had returned the car by Saturday night with four brand new gnarly treaded tires. The Reteve sticker was prominently displayed on the windshield, and he handed me a receipt for the tires (720.00). What more, I had asked, for the inspection fees, the installation and realignment of the tires, and your time driving the car to Nicoya and back? And your muchacho–a guy who had followed him in another car to bring him back to Nicoya? Fifty dollars more, he said. And that, I concluded to my teacher, is what you need to pay me if you want his number.