THE RIVER PACUARE AND PUERTO VIEJO – “PURO VIDA”

 

 

Costa Rica is both the Maui and the Kaui of the Hawaiian Islands.  Which is to say, it is the most beautiful of the Central American landscapes, and has the greatest number of activities.  This country really knows how to market itself for “do it all, see it all, enjoy it all.”  It is a country that in many ways doesn’t really fit into the rest of Central America.

 

The Costa Ricans or “Ticos” call this quality of life “Pura Vida.”  Pura Vida literally means Pura or  pure and vida or life (but "Pure life" in Spanish would be "Vida pura" instead), so the real meaning is closer to some combination of "plenty of life", "full of life", "this is real living!" Like “Aloha” in Hawaiian, it can be used both as a greeting or a farewell.  It is universally used throughout Costa Rica and it has been used by most Ticos (and expatriates as well) since 1956.

 

My Pura Vida in Costa Rica begins on the Rio Pacuare.  This is one of the great river rafting arteries of the world.  It runs from the Central Highlands relatively close to San Jose, near the town of Siguirres northeast to the Caribbean coast.  It was selected by National Geographic Magazine as one of the five most scenic rivers in the world.  The movie “Congo” was filmed here, to simulate African jungle.  My guide service is called “Exploradores Costa Rica.”

 

The run is much longer than most rafting trips for a single day, with an 18-mile navigable stretch traversed in about four and one-half hours (but only about two and one-half hours during high water in the post-April rainy season).  Over 42 whitewater rapids from class II to IV and dropping over 1000 feet in its descent to our starting point punctuate the journey.

 

Our guide, Andres, teaches the six of us in my raft the basics of river paddling and how to interpret his commands.  Even if we have had multiple river rafting experiences prior.  The raft is of mixed lineage, but he speaks in English – that being the universal language of business and travel.  The water is warm, and we soon take delight in splashing ourselves and nearby rafts with our paddles.  Safety training is practiced during calm stretches without white water rapids, of how to rescue a companion or guide who has fallen overboard during the trip.  This comes in very handy eventually.

 

Besides the rapids, there are many species of butterflies to be seen on the edge of the river.  During most of its length, a thick, roily jungle which grows to impossible heights and at impossible angles dominates the passage.  How can trees and vines stick to such vertical walls?  We also see what is known as the “Jesus” lizard.  One falls out of a tree near us from a swinging vine.  Instead of swimming to shore, however, the creature starts to dog paddle rapidly, and is suddenly up on webbed feet and scurrying back to shore in a rapid bi-pedal motion.  Yes, the lizard was literally “walking on water!”

 

Most of the steepest rapids, are taken with all six of us responding to “Drop!” and crouching low in the raft.  In so doing, we have to abandon our foot anchor pockets glued to the floor of the raft.  This lends to trouble occasionally.  Not in the straightforward up and down bucking motion of the craft as it rocks through the most treacherous of white water sections.  But when the raft gets twisted by centrifugal force, not having a toehold while sitting on a rounded edge or resuming your position on the outside inflated tube of the raft can be dicey.

 

In one such centrifugal swing, I get thrown backward.   Almost into the water.  One leg however remains under a rope and onboard.  My back is in the water, and my head goes under at times.  We enter a series of rapids, some with rocks sticking above the river surface.  The guide tells the other to release my leg and push me out of the raft, despite the whitewater.  At this very moment, we make a crazy swing, and another paddler on the same side gets thrown dizzyingly into the wash.

 

Now the raft is highly imbalanced.  We try to get back in, but there is way too much swirl and bob and commotion.  Rocks pound at our kidneys, knees, and feet.  We respond to training and raise our feet up as high as we can and point them downriver, so as not to snag v-shaped rocks or roots which might trap us under water.  There is no panic. We are well-trained and wearing large life vests.  We merely wish to avoid being pummeled by hard, irregular surfaces with uncertain vortexes waiting on their downstream side.

 

Our guide struggles valiantly to maintain control of the raft.  Both of us in the river try to regain our position with help from those five remaining inside.  The inflated sides are very high, and it is hard while circling violently to pull yourself aboard – even with help from those remaing.  Finally, both of us are pulled in, and we all collapse into a rugby-like scrum in the middle of the raft.  Nobody is paddling.  I have no idea how Andres maintained control and kept us in a safe position during this 60-second fire drill.  We realize how lucky we have been, laugh with relief, and go “sky high” with the six paddles in another rendition of the ubiquitous “high five” known universally throughout the world.

 

Lunch is taken about two-thirds of the way through our journey.  We emerge from the rafts to find a Polynesian type set of huts.  Some have primitive toilets, and other shelters to provide shade and benches for rest.  The sun is warm enough that most of our soaked clothes dry within ten to fifteen minutes.  We are treated to a delicious meal of pineapple, tacos, beans, rice, fruit, lemonade, and salad.  Somebody apparently forgot to bring the caipirinhas.  

 

Eventually, we navigate the final set of rapids.  And dive overboard to enjoy the relaxing float  sans shoes and clad only in swim suits and life vests.  The final bridge and setting off  place where our vehicles had gone upriver five hours previously, comes into view.  We have just experienced in a unique way, one of the great short-span river journeys on the planet.

 

At trip’s end close to 3 PM, Exploradores gives us the option of either returning to San Jose, going north to the next great venture at Volcan Arenal, or going southeast to the remote Caribbean town of Puerto Viejo – nearly the last stop in Costa Rica before Panama.  I elect the Carib and Garifuna like culture of Puerto Viejo, with Arenal to follow later.

 

The road in is quite isolated.  It is much better quality than most roads experienced to date in Central America.  Cost Rica, in fact, has the best roads overall, both for specific sections and in general.  After the ugly industrial town of Porto Limon is left behind, it is long and straight and only occasionally marred with potholes or washed-out sections.  The highway parallels the Caribbean for the most part, and is dominated by lengthy sections of tranquil palm trees, empty beaches, and sections of green short-canopy jungle.  Banana farms are interspersed throughout.

 

I make three different inquiries once in town, and elect to stay at the Jacaranda Inn for about $34 a night.  It is a hostel with artsy ceramic tile walkways and a relaxing interior courtyard dominated by ponds and palm trees.  Much more costly than in previous travels earlier in Central America of course, but then again, this is Costa Rica.  A quick tour is made of the town.  A reconoiter, as it were.  To my delight, I find this is Caye Caulker all over again.

 

Primary differences are that this is not an island, and the roads are not paved.  But the same laid back culture exists, combining Carib culture, Rasta dress codes, plenty of weed and drugs available for those that fancy that sort of distraction, waterfront dining, trinket and art shopping, and many opportunities for recreation.  That includes hiking, boating, snorkeling, scuba diving, many sunbathing opportunities at countless beaches, shopping, and general sightseeing.

 

I dine at the Lazy Mon Restaurant, where three US ex-pats play Jimmy Buffet type music for a two hour set under a waterfront metal roof to stave off occasional downpours.  The guacamole and chips are as usual, excellent, the caipirinhas and daiquiris are two-for-one priced, and the breeze incomparable after a hot sun lasting until nearly 6 PM.

 

The following day (Tuesday, the 22^nd)  I am getting wash done at the Jacaranda and enjoying a beer at the interior courtyard there when I encounter Cleo Robertson, a 74 year-old ex-pat from Pass-A-Grille, Florida who had just moved to Puerto Viejo permanently after visiting ever since her pre-teen years close to World War II.  I learn that Cleo had authored five books, including “Whim of Iron” and “Sand in My Soul.”  She had also written some original computer software for hospitals while at Duke University Medical Center that had allowed her to retire early and travel the world.

 

She spentthe first part of our conversation, telling me what Puerto Viejo had been like over 60 years prior, when it was really isolated.  Up until 15 years ago, she told me, it had been a four-day journey by donkey to Porto Limon.  There was no road like the one I came in on. She also introduced me to “urine therapy.”  Apparently, in large parts of the world, urine is used in the absence of other medicines to handle burns, strings, cuts, bruises, infections and many other maladies.  It was even used, she says, for blood transfusions during WW II when red blood cells were in very limited supply.

 

Most notably, however, Cleo introduced me to the laid back culture of Puerto Viejo.  A magical place, like Caye Caulker but a little less moneyed, where people don’t accumulate things, frequently live off  the land,  have abundant spare time, and celebrate a “being vs. doing” lifestyle.

 

My enjoyment of this little piece of heaven supercedes my schedule.  The original plan had been to return to San Jose, pick up a rental car, and proceed north to Volcan Arenal for another action sequence of the trip.  But Puerto Viejo is just too enjoyable.  There are restaurants to sample, taverns galore (with many original drinks to do quality testing on), souvenir shacks with a surprising quantity of original offerings, and the water.  Always the water.  Also about ten miles away is Cahuita National Park, where I am told much wildlife can be found for up close and personal viewing.

 

So off to Cahuita by Chicken Bus. An easy trip, over with in less than 20 minutes.  And I immediately run into what I swear is a disciple of Cleo in a tavern/restaurant in Cahuita, named Sonja.  She had lived in the area for seven years, after selling everything and leaving her home in the Canary Islands (Spain). 

 

She takes over where Cleo had left off.  “Costa Rica impacts you,” she tells me.  “There is much tranquility here.  People come here to change.  We play with life in Cahuita and Puerto Viejo.  It is all about getting what you really need at this time in your life.  If you don’t want to, you don’t have to work.  It is warm enough to live outside, there is food all around you … there is plenty of food in the trees … you don’t have to have any bills or obligations … and you can learn to relate to people again.  Maybe for the first time?”

 

The National Park itself is small, compact, and full of many opportunities to see animal life up at very close range.  The path in follows the Caribbean coastline very closely, never really losing sight of it.  You have the option of walking in on the beach if you choose, though much of the wildlife viewing is lost.  It is the best option for a relaxing return journey.

 

During my tour there, I saw nearly everything except what I wanted to see most.  A Toucan, the colorful big-beaked birds which are native to this area.  This included a sloth (who was so close I could have given him a medical exam), parrots, very poisonous yellow miniature snakes, raccoons, white faced and howler monkeys, and a species yet to be identified carrying cameras, mismatched clothing, bad grooming habits, and sporting rubber flip-flop foot covers. Dinner that night after returning to Puerto Viejo took place in the middle of a rainstorm.  The wait staff simply adjusts tables, tips the canvas awnings to dump more water away from your outdoor seats, and moves people closer together.  I chose seafood again – my meal of choice and regular standby – at La Marisqueria Restaurant, which required a 45-minute wait since it was one of the most popular dining establishments in town.

 

My bonus day in Puerto Viejo is spent sleeping in, enjoying a final walk about town, sleuthing the waterfront for the best beach location, and finally getting a bit of full-immersion sun tanning opportunity after more than 30 days on the road in Central America. I had yet another delightful lunch, at a restaurant whose name does not remind me yet of itself, and does not appear on any local maps.  They provided the best tacos I’ve eaten yet in Central America.  And they swallowed my hat.  A very expensive hat, as it turned out.  Paid $15 for it, and it occupied my head for perhaps twenty minutes before walking away and leaving it at the restaurant.  Turned out to be an expensive rental.

 

Ride back to San Jose was uneventful, and cost only $10 US for the four and one-half hour journey on a public Chicken Bus.  The ride was notable for having guaranteed seats, a cost which was only one-fifth that of the private and supposedly superior Tica Bus, and made only one stop along the way – in Porto Limon.  Knowing there was a 6 AM wakeup call for picking up a rental car for the first time of the journey in San Jose, there were no nighttime excursions or walks or sightseeing.  Just a two volcanoes awaiting, canopy platforms and zip lining to explore, horseback riding, and hot springs to make it all … uh … just “chill.”