The Adventurer's Son(46)
In 2002, we had both competed in an adventure race in Fiji. He had been on a Costa Rican team that struggled, like most teams, on the first day. I hoped our shared experiences then might create common ground. Instead, it seemed to cast me as a competitor. But this wasn’t a race between Dondee and me. We were on the same team in a race to find my son as quickly as possible.
Knowing Roman well, better than anyone, I could help. We had walked on and off jungle trails together since he was three in Puerto Rico. We’d been to tropical Asia, Australia—even to Corcovado twice. It was difficult to articulate the depth of these experiences without sounding both pretentious and arrogant, but my intuition would offer more insight than two dozen Cruz Roja volunteers.
Dondee returned to his computer. A Cruz Roja volunteer sat next to me. “Are you offering a reward?” he asked in clear English.
“No, not yet.”
“Good. There was another American, David Gimelfarb, who disappeared five years ago in another national park. He was missing for months and nobody saw anything. Then his parents offered a reward. Suddenly there were sightings everywhere, even in Nicaragua and Panama. But it never led to anything. You see, gringos with blue eyes and blond hair—they all look the same.”
The Gimelfarbs’ son had gone missing from a simple two-mile trail hike in Rincón de Vieja National Park near the border of Costa Rica and Nicaragua. The Gimelfarbs’ $100,000 reward offer caused problems for everybody. Its only outcome was false information about the missing boy and false hope for his parents.
The day dragged on. People came and went. They talked quietly, ignoring me. The success of a search-and-rescue effort comes down to the first few days, the first few hours, often to the initiative and luck of just one person. This I knew from experience.
By the time the sun dropped like a rock at six-thirty, the only things we’d learned were that we shouldn’t offer a reward, that Cody was seen with a drug dealer, and that no one had looked on the Conte, the river where Roman said he would start.
“Thai, ask Dondee if they found where Roman stayed in town.” Dondee shook his head.
The answer shocked me. After two days of searching, it seemed they should know, yet they didn’t. “Thai, let’s go,” I said. “There’s nothing for us here.”
Chapter 22
The Corners
The yellow bag, Corners Hostel, July 25, 2014.
Courtesy of the author
Thai and I left into the night to find where Roman had stayed. We made our way to each of Puerto Jiménez’s half-dozen hostels. In fluent Spanish, Thai asked the proprietors if they had seen the young man in the photo we showed. An hour after leaving MINAE headquarters we crossed the only paved street in town, walked past the long-distance bus stop, and arrived at the Corners Hostel. Heavy metal bars enclosed the two-story building up to its tin roof. In front, a picnic table sat beside a small, empty parking lot.
We walked in. An old lady about four and a half feet tall shuffled out in slippers and a simple blue smock patterned in plaid. She was Do?a Berta, the owner. She had short-cropped hair, milky blue eyes, and a warm smile, but no English. Thai handed her the photo and asked if she’d seen the young man. “Si. He stayed here, in the dormitory,” Do?a Berta said in Spanish.
My heart raced. We found where he stayed! Maybe he’s coming back. Do?a Berta showed where Roman had signed in. There, on July 8, he signed his given name Cody Dial next to his passport number. This evidence of him comforted me, even if it was just his neat, small-lettered handwriting. I looked at the computers in the office for guest use, wondering if he had typed his emails there. “Ask if the police came by.”
“No,” Do?a Berta responded. Thai and I were the first to ask about him.
“Had he come back?”
“No,” she said, “but he left money for his return.” She opened a different notebook. Her diminutive hands pointed to an entry in the ledger. He had paid for a dorm bed and was coming back.
“Did he leave anything?” I asked, thinking of all the trips when we’d left things in hotel or airport storage as we headed for the mountains, rivers, and jungles from Australia to Alaska. Do?a Berta led us out to a caged-in corner of the building. Immediately I saw the small yellow duffel bag marked “Forrest McCarthy, Jackson, WY.” Another wave of warmth and excitement passed over me. The familiarity of his things made him feel close.
Where is he? What is he doing? When will he be back?
Inside the cage was a big backpack, too, but I didn’t recognize it. It belonged to another traveler, I surmised, and ignored it. Instead, I pawed through the contents of the yellow bag, looking for answers. Inside was a red spiral notebook. I tore out a page and I wrote him:
Friday 7/25 8:30 PM
Rome, We were worried when we didn’t hear back after 5 days, so Thai and I came down looking for you. Email or go to Corcovado Park Headquarters. There’s a big search on for you. Hope you are OK!
Dad
Back at MINAE headquarters, we got in our rental jeep and drove to the Iguana. Toby and Lauren were waiting, eager for an update. We told them how we’d found Roman’s hostel, that the little old lady there had said he’d planned to return but never did, then mentioned to them the story of the drug dealer and hike to Carate.
As locals, they knew of the guy and his name. “We’d heard that, too,” Toby said, “that Cody was seen with Pata Lora. Our breakfast cook has a relative in Piedras Blancas who saw Pata Lora with your son.”