by Ted Bauman
The Sovereign Investor
Nuestra Señora de la Muerte.
Imaginations of a secret death cult tormented me as I rounded yet another hairpin bend on a mist-shrouded mountainside. A lightly guardrailed drop of lord knows how many hundreds of feet was just inches away.
“Pura vida, hell,” I thought to myself grimly. “These ticos want to end it all and take me with them.”
I’d seen some dodgy driving. I thought African minibus taxis were the worst. But that was before I drove a rented jeep across the mountainous back roads from Quepos to San José, Costa Rica, during a rainy harvest season.