Pura Vida in Costa Rica
San Jose, Arenal, Monteverde, Manual Antonio, Malpais
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Here on the rich coast,
they say "Pura Vida". Pure
Life. It beats Zanzibar's
"Hakuna Matata" (No Worries) or Nicaragua's "100% Manana" (100% Tomorrow, which
is akin to The Check Is In the Mail). So, as I sucked back my third "happy juice" on a
yacht, watching the sun glow across the warm Pacific, I reflected on a week of
canyoneering, ziplining, rafting, horse-riding, animal spotting, skinny dipping
and beer drinking. The only
way to describe it, naturally, would be "pura vida."
"Technically, um, this
might be referred to as Golden Showers," I tell Nicole, who is clutching her
lower leg in pain. Our group
had spent much of the afternoon on the pristine beach inside Manuel Antonio
National Park, checking out three fingered sloth, white-faced monkeys, iguanas,
woodpeckers, and various bugs, before resting up under the shade of coconut
trees. The sea was warmer than pee
in a wetsuit, and Michelle (Canada) and Margarida (Portugal) seemed content to
wade in it all day. Dennis and I
went for a jog along the crescent beach, because the scene was begging for it,
and he was a little jumpy after a rare armadillo fell off a tree and nearly
landed on his head. It was
unlucky for Nicole that no sooner had she taken a dip than she'd been stung by
something stingy. Since it was a
good half-hour walk out the park, the only solution, according to an episode of
Friends that everyone could remember, was to pee on the sting. Just my luck that I'd been
holding one in, being too damn lazy to get off the sand and flood a shrub. Thus, on Nicole's pleading, and as the
group stared on incredulously, I whizzed into an empty water bottle, and she
quickly poured 100% Gonzo Piss onto her wound. Naturally, the pain subsided instantly. "You need to drink more water,"
says Michelle, who works in a medical lab, concerned that my output was more
Belgian fruit beer than Bud Light.
Whatever. Besides that
minor hitch, and the odd roving coati (imagine a large rabid badger), it was
another day in paradise, and difficult to believe that we'd spent the previous
day zip-lining through cloudforest canopy in cold rain and gale force
winds.
There really is no
shortage of things to do in Costa Rica. While other countries in Central America have spent
decades mired in civil war, and all their wealth buying the tools to fight them
with, Costa Rica is unique for disbanding its army (1949), conserving its
nature, improving its economy and standard of living, and yet somehow still
managing to ensure that its road are potholed to hell as to conform to
worldwide developing country standards. All this peace and pure life attracted America, which
protects Costa Rica as an important trading post, a surfing paradise, and a
destination for mentally challenged US college kids who think Spring Break in
Fort Lauderdale is like, so yesterday. It's my personal belief that tourists flock to
Costa Rica because they get a kick out of drinking tap water in Central America.
The fact that the country is scenic, friendly, affordable and full of perfectly
legal prostitutes might also contribute. It's definitely not the taxi drivers in the capital
San Jose, who as a breed should be eradicated, along with mosquitoes, sand
flies and Paris Hilton. After a
5am start to catch the mini-bus, ferry, taxi, and bus to the San Jose from
Nicaragua (including a painful 90 minute-stop at a flake-paint border), it took
forever to find a taxi driver willing to rip-off a bunch of gringos at the bus
stop 8 hours later. Most
visitors to Costa Rica arrive in San Jose so they can get the hell out of it,
missing the charm of its transsexual hookers, trash-lined streets, and suicidal
drivers. We left some more of the
group behind, picked up a few more, and drank the night away at a hole in the
wall bar with a great jukebox, broken pool table, and cross-dressing
bartender. I would have
liked to explore more of the city, the way I might explore the dirt behind my
fingernails, but we departed early for La Fortuna, and the perfect thimble
volcano of Arenal.
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Now if you're going to
whip-bang Central America in five weeks, you're going to see a lot of
volcanoes. You might even
get the chance to poke sticks in moving lava (Guatemala) or fly down one on a
plank of wood (Nicaragua). Arenal,
one of the most famous and volatile volcanoes of the Americas, was covered in
cloud and all but invisible. It
erupted, unexpectedly, in the1970's, killing about 80 people, and launching a
tourist industry. La Fortuna, the
nearest town, seems a bit too small for the many tourist agencies offering all
manner of adventure/eco-tourism activities. Each day, tourists flock here to see fiery rocks fall down
the slopes of Arenal at night, or better yet, explode high above the
crater. Even with the
thick cloud cover, I saw sparks ripple down its side, but as Peter remarked
with typical English dryness: "The lava is nowhere near as nice as when you're
standing right next to it," referring to our adventures at Pacaya in
Guatemala. For the new folks in
the group, seeing an active volcano for the first time was still a major
thrill. As was smuggling in
booze into the Baldi Hot Spings. Costa Rica had mayoral elections that weekend,
and instituted a three-day alcohol ban across the entire country. The idea being, if you're too drunk you
might vote for the wrong guy, even if you're a tourist, even if you're not
voting (according to the local Tica Times a few days later, not many people
did). Maybe if they get
voters blind-drunk in the US, they might vote for the right guy, but this has
nothing to do with the fact that I soon found myself running between a dozen
thermal pools and massive, fake-rock hot tubs, seemingly imported from the
Playboy Mansion. We set up a wet
bar behind some bushes, and spent the night flirting in hot springs in the
moonlight shadow of a volcano.
It's not every day...
But the thrill of La
Fortuna lay in the Lost Canyon.
Former tour guide Christina, possibly the only person from Wisconsin who
can say "I've done the Inca Trail 16 times" and her adventure-mad husband
Suresh, have painstakingly cleared a canyon a few miles out of town, and have
added this "discovered" canyon to their list of impressive activities at
Desafio Adventures. We were
one of the first groups to rappel off the 50m plus wooden platforms, and along
for the drop was a certifier for the US Canyoneering Association, or something,
who looked disturbingly like Phillip Seymour Hoffman. The last time I did something like this was in
New Zealand, where I rappelled into a cave, yelping in agony as I'd caught my
left nut in the harness.
This time, I just yelped at the breathtaking sight one is privy to when
dangling mid-air beneath a waterfall. It took a couple hours to make our way down river,
including two huge drops and a couple fun obstacles. The other group encountered a snake, which may or may not
have been poisonous (the way stingrays may or may not be dangerous), but everyone
had a rosy watermelon smile at the end, perfect to fit the fresh-cut watermelon
waiting for us after the steep climb out.
Over glasses of good cheap wine, Phillip S. Hoffman gave Desafio two
thumbs up, and so did I. After a
home-cooked meal, I went river rafting over a long, turbulent stretch of rapids
that provided three thrilling moments:
firstly, when Gary of Melbourne went over the edge, requiring a quick
Gonzo rescue that provided one of those few moments of pure adventure we all
crave outside the movies.
Secondly, when we pulled into shore to find locals having a river party,
selling cold beer despite the ban (punishable by three-months in jail),
serenading us with an accordion.
Finally, when I left the boat to float down the rapids on my ass,
catching my toe in the rocks, which, were it not for the covered toes of my
Keen sandals, would surely have broken just as sure as I was, later that night,
when we attacked my bottle of Nicaraguan Flor de Cana rum. I planned to bring it back to Canada,
to wow and dazzle my friends with my exotic liquor. Instead it lasted just a few days in my backpack, and just a
few minutes on the pavement outside our hotel where we decided to hold the
party.
Cloudforest is different
from rainforest in that misty cloud passes through the trees, as opposed to
constant rain. So there was
really nothing to be surprised about when I arrived in Monteverde to find it
wet and cold, with howling winds and a chill that planted itself in my very
bones. It was the type
of weather that renders glasses useless (if they're not wet, they're fogged),
and is a general affront to good time sensibilities, especially if you're on a
winter-sun vacation in Costa Rica.
But the old saying goes: gale force winds should never stop a night
walk, and into the cloudforest we go, searching for sleeping birds, bugs and
fat, hairy tarantulas. Our
knowledgeable guide informs us that animals are wiser than humans because other
than some porcupines and the odd tarantula, most creatures know better than
hang around a forest during a wind storm. Besides the thick forest teeming with
wildlife, people also come to Monteverde to zipline, which involves strapping
oneself onto a harness and jumping off a platform to slide through the
canopy. I tried this once before,
in South Africa, and didn't find it too extreme, but I also didn't find
Skytrek, with ziplines over 700m long, 100m high, operating in conditions that
would send most people home to board up their windows. By the time we reached the
11th line, we had to go two at a time to avoid being blown in
circles. Wet, cold, extreme
wind - in terms of Gonzo, the weather conditions were just perfect.
Check out the photos!
Check out the video!
I was quite happy to
hang by a line because my ass was smarting from a horse ride through the
surrounding countryside.
Since my Mongolian gallop, I now count myself as an "experienced" rider,
which means I don't panic when the horse decides to bolt after the piece of
tail riding down the other side of the road. Babalu, my steed, was fit and frisky, as white as
Shadowfax, as strong as Silver. I
rode with my guide Marvin to a coffee shop where hundreds of hummingbirds
zoomed about, touching up on my Spanish which has now progressed to the point
of "poco" as opposed to "nada". As with most of Costa Rica, the roads were
shotgunned with potholes, so Babalu was tripping all over the place, at one
point leaping across a large puddle. To which I replied: Yeehaa!
Once again, too much rum
equals too much fun, and it all ended up in our hotel where cheesy erotic
paintings and blankets (women with pink nipples, jaguar print) bore witness to
all manner of mayhem. Tucan's
Adventure Tours are not age-limited like other companies, but that doesn't mean
people don't like to party. It just means they're not 19 YEAR OLD English boys
GIVING IT before going to UNI to become ACCOUNTANTS. "I regret not doing tours like this earlier," shouts
Maureen from Perth over Black Eyed Peas (who else?) while a Costa Rican hooker
dry humps a client on the dance floor.
"If my daughters could see all I've done, they'd take away my
passport!" Whoops,
sorry Ôbout that Maureen.
[A short note on Lizano
Salsa: It's the national sauce, a
kind of mixture between Worcester sauce, curry, with a dash of Tabasco. You'll find it on every table, and it's
impossible not to enjoy a meal that has been complimented with Lizano, and
perhaps a few drops of chili. If
the bottle explodes in my backpack on the way home, I take solace knowing that
Lizano is available all around the world. Condiment lovers: Make room in the fridge for one more bottle.]
The village next to
Mario Antonio is sleepy, but the beaches are sensational, and it was a perfect
spot to skinny dip after a big night out that began at a restaurant built
around the US Cargo plane that sparked the Iran-Contra affair. Just before the waiter lit the cocoracha
- a hideous drink that is true to its name,
cockroach - I looked down the table marveling at my luck to score a great group
of people to travel with, three times in a row. Val, an excellent guide with a keen sense of
adventure (and seemingly unlimited propensity to party) agreed
wholeheartedly. So cheers
for all that, one last night in San Jose, farewells at the bus stop, shit,
missed the bus to the Caribbean, hey thanks Pablo for the ride to the other bus
stop, the notorious Coca Cola Bus Station (this is meant to be bad? Come on!) and here I am waiting for a bus to spend my last few
days...somewhere.
Now, I type these words at
a hostel that sums up my mood perfectly - Tranquilo - surrounded by impossibly
tanned, beautiful and healthy looking surfer dudes and dudettes. Even the Austrian girl with the Dengue
Fever in the room next door looks like a supermodel. "It's like ugly people are
not allowed in here, or something," says Cat from Florida, who has been making
a pilgrimage here every season for seven years. This village has no name, apparently, but lies
between Malpais and Santa Theresa, and was recommended to me by Elizabeth of
northern California who I met at the bus station and decided to follow after a
flipping a coin (two out of three). Within hours, I meet some interesting folk from
Iceland, South Africa, Israel, the US, and get invited to a house party, and
curse that I only have a few days here, when I could quite easily stay a
month. And so, after five
weeks of chocka-blocka itinerary, it's fitting to end off Central America on
such pure and utter randomness.
Along with the unforgettable memories of adventures, natural beauty,
banging parties, and wonderful new friends I met along the way. Pura Gonzo!
Hostel Tranquilo
Santa Theresa, Costa Rica
11 December, 2006
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