Here it is folks, the last installment of our crew trip to Costa Rica. I have some thoughts of Costa Rica in general and traveling there which I will try to share with you at a later date. For now, here it is, Part 3
Day 9
The forest here is much more of a rainforest than farther north. Our Tico host in Samara told us it is because the mountains inland are higher and closer, and trap the moisture coming off the ocean.
Susan and I walk the beach. Hermit crabs skitter along, carrying their shells with them. As we walk up they tuck in for protection, and the slope of the sand causes them to tumble towards the water. The sand is dark, almost black. Lines of pelicans fish in formation above the ocean, each following the one before, their wings only inches from the water.
A man is fishing in the surf, using only a spool of line with a weight below some lures. He tosses out his line and wraps it in. He has caught two good sized fish. Amazing what is out there, just a few feet away. We think of the sports fishermen, with their fancy rods and fancy outfits, and laugh.
Soon it is time to leave this slice of nirvana and continue south. Our destination is Quepos, and the National Park of Manuel Antonio just beyond. We stop for lunch and our beer is served with ice cubes.
Quepos is a busy town, but not frantic like Jaco. Our hotel is set in vibrant jungle. The road below is noisy but the grounds are grand. We go to the pool and I tell Susan it is the best setting for a pool I have ever seen.
The hotel also boasts an excellent restaurant, and the food is delicious. Our bed is covered with mosquito netting, set in a room of polished hardwood. The romanticism is too much to resist. We snuggle and listen for monkeys. Later that night the road finally quiets down, and we hear only the sounds of the rainforest. A light rain falls. It is wondrous.
Day 10
Manuel Antonio is at the end of the road leading from Quepos. To get there you must first park your car and walk a gauntlet of vendors. It is a mellow gauntlet though, and colorful, with ladies' sarongs waving in the breeze under the palm trees and all sorts of trinkets laid out for your inspection.
Once you enter the park you become a part of the mass of
touristos that are walking the trails, photographing every animal in sight. Some swim in the water off the beautiful beaches. It is a blend of the Discovery Channel, Disney World, and over hyped eco-tourism.
We see monkeys. Quite a few, actually. Despite the signs asking you not to feed them or use flash with your cameras, people do both.
We see sloths lounging high in the trees, raccoons walking amongst the
touristos, an osprey with his catch of the day, and much more.
We see lots of people from all over. I am passed by a man muttering "We have those at home", as he dismisses a guide pointing out a heron.
Back outside the park the tour busses are filling the street with their oily fumes. Gray haired refugees from the cruise ship docked near Quepos stare out from their seats inside. The scene is that of somewhat controlled, easy chaos.
On a hill next to the road is a very odd sight. It is a C-123 transport plane, turned into a bar. The plane was abandoned in a hangar in San Jose after the Iran Contra scandal broke during the Reagan years. The owners of the bar bought it for $3000.00 and had it shipped in pieces to this hillside and reconstructed. The sight of it irritates me beyond description. Not that Ticos bought it and dragged it up here. It irritates me for what it represents. It is a relic of a folly of our government.
I talk to the bartender inside and he tells me I am not alone. Many Americans visiting feel the same way, he says. I have no doubt the airplane was a good investment, if not for Ollie North then at least for the Ticos who now own it.
Day 11
We decide to take a zip line tour. The van picks us up about 10:30. We drive through farm land and palm plantations. Our guide keeps the trip interesting with his blend of information and humor. He says "Okay" a lot. Slowly we climb into the foothills of the mountains. In about 45 minutes we arrive.
The zip line itself is a series of 10 runs, along with two rappels, and what Susan dubs the "Tarzan Swing" . At one point we are over 100 feet off the ground. The trees are awesome; the swath of forest we are in is beautiful. The sound of the cicadas is deafening. Everyone's excitement is contagious. It is fun to share, in a small way, what I experience almost daily in my tree work. I love being up in the trees.
As we finish the rain begins. We are served a fine lunch as the rain pounds on the tin roof high above us.
Our hotel has an observation tower at the top of the hill behind it. Just before sunset Susan and I take off for the hike up. We see a couple of poison dart frogs, colored black and vivid green. We see a family of monkeys swing through the canopy. We pass huge trees extending far above us.
The view from the top is grand. Before us is Quepos, with the playa stretching off in the distance. Behind us the clouds gather, thick and low and dark. A sloth climbs the tree next to us and makes himself comfortable. We watch the sun sink below the ocean and make our way back to the hotel. The rain returns and lasts for hours.
Day 12
The rain the previous night has given us high hopes of seeing more frogs in the forest behind us, so we take the trail back up to the tower. Although we only see three, a group of monkeys again pass us high in the canopy above. The sloth has not moved. I begin to believe sloths have figured out a few things about relaxing.
Our host at the hotel takes us to taste cinnamon from a tree by the pool, and shows us how it is harvested. He shows us allspice and pepper plants, and gives us a bag of cinnamon and a bag of peppercorns to take home. Monkeys arrive and swing about the trees. We learn from our host that they are squirrel monkeys. They are amazing acrobats. I want to bring a few home and teach them to use chainsaws, but Susan isn't sure we could get them green cards.
Later Susan and I drive into Quepos. We stop in a local dive. They have a signed photograph of Muhammad Ali on the wall. Ali is my man. I ask the bartender and she brings it over for my inspection. On the back is a certificate of authenticity. Awesome.
We talk to a man from England who lost his wife a few months ago. He has taken up with a Tica, and now the family has ostracized him. He shows us her picture. She is a pretty black woman.
We talk to another man from Canada who seems to be wandering about. He tells me he is growing tired of Central America, and we talk about New Zealand. Soon Susan and I drift out and walk the town.
It is the type of town most tourists avoid. It is the type of place Susan and I tend to seek out. There are rough looking men and prostitutes on the streets and a woman walking with her elderly mother. There are children playing and a small carnival with rides. We stop for chicken grilled on a stick with tortillas, and a bowl of stir fry noodles.
We talk to a man sitting on a park bench. He calls us back as we begin to continue our walk.
"Watch out for the crackers here after 10."
"What?"
"This park can get a little rough. The people smoking crack, you know."
Day 13
This is it, a travel day back to San Jose. Though I try not to, I revert to my end of the trip moodiness at times. I snap at Susan for no reason early on and it puts a damper on the rest of our day together. When will I learn?
We decide to take the old road back, as per our host's recommendation. This is the original route from Quepos before the paved highway was built. It is all dirt with very little traffic, and very scenic.
We pass through cattle country, palm plantations, and pineapple farms. We see trees covered in beautiful yellow flowers. The first ¾ of the trip is very rural, and we stop at a Soda for lunch.
As we begin the descent into the Central Valley, traffic begins to get heavier. By the time we get to the Pan Am highway it is rush hour. The traffic is unbelievable. I have never seen anything like it.
Cars and trucks and busses and motorcycles pack the highway. Motorcycles go down the shoulder, between the lanes of traffic; wherever they can fit. Busses follow the motorcycles down the shoulder. It is hectic, especially when you don't really know where you are going. The air is full of exhaust.
We see our destination (the car rental office) across the highway, but we can't get there. We stop for directions and are told to go down the Pan Am a few kilometers, get off, go over the bridge and come back the other way. It takes us almost 1-½ hours.
I have been in rush hour traffic in Chicago. I have navigated the freeways around San Francisco. I have taken taxis in New York and Belize City. I endured T-Rex construction in Denver. I have never seen the likes of the traffic that day in San Jose. I never want to again.
By the time we return the cars everyone is frazzled. We take their recommendation of a hotel nearby that will shuttle us to the airport in the morning rather than look for where we have reservations.
I have never stayed in a hotel that has razor wire for security before. I can't say that now. We have a passable meal and everyone retires. Everyone but me, that is. I sit out on the steps of the balcony drinking beer, watching the lights of the city. From the safety of my side of the razor wire I watch a car pull up. The man glances quickly at me, opens his wallet and hands his passenger some money. She gets out, unlocks her gate, and goes in the house. A few minutes later and the scene is repeated a few doors down. We are staying in the middle of a neighborhood of prostitutes, which is a legal trade down here.
There is an old British saying about getting drunk. It's called getting pissed. I am getting a wee bit pissed. I wander down and talk with the night clerk. He is in his early 20's, and it turns out he teaches English. He is a swimmer.
We talk about the neighborhood. We talk about swimming in the river in his hometown. It is very beautiful he tells me, but some people throw their trash in it. We talk about the environment, and in his opinion most Ticos don't really care all that much. So much for all the brochures on Eco-tourism.
He tells me about an English tourist that was angry and pushed him in the chest a day or two earlier. He seems more puzzled and hurt than angry about it. Ticos are generally very polite people, and I think back to my shortness with the agent at the car rental office earlier that night and am ashamed of myself.
A friend calls the clerk on his cell phone, and I go back to my perch on the deck. In a few hours will be our wake up call for the shuttle to the airport. It has been one heck of a trip. I finish the last beer and go to bed.