PANAMA CITY AND THE PANAMA CANAL

 

 

What can be said about a 15-hour bus ride, from one capital city to another through the major portions of two countries, and much of it in darkness?  It is a test of endurance.  It is not fun.  You can’t even see.  The intense sunlight glare during daytime hours prevents any real viewing of the passing scenery.  You can’t even blog.  The guy seated in front of me (this is my fate; I have the world’s best parking karma, but the worst when it comes to who is placed in front of me on planes and buses) is overweight, chatty, and hasn’t taken his Ritalin.  Not only can I not focus or hear myself think between his aggressive bouncing, but my computer screen makes a hefty crease across my abdomen.  The computer is stashed in record time.

 

We arrive at 3 AM in Panama City from San Jose.  The bus station is new and modern.  A taxi driver makes a call to my designated hostel, only to find they have no 24 hour attendant.  I am quick to decide I’ll not be sitting up and trying to sleep it off in a terminal somewhere in unfamiliar territory.  I ask him to seek out a cheap hotel, one that can essentially be rented for about four to six hours.  It doesn’t take much imagination to conjure up the type of company this resulted in when I soon found a place that would accept my terms and payment limitations!

 

After the minimally necessary three and one-half hours of sleep, the gal at the receiving desk wakes me up and wants another full day’s worth of payment for continued use of the room.  I argue that I should be able to pay the balance between a full day’s room rate, and what has been paid already.  To no avail.  She has apparently heard this argument before.  Since I want to see the Panama Canal and not be riding all around town in taxis to find a suitable room, I uncharacteristically demur and just pay the next day’s full rate.  About $33, if I remember correctly.

 

There is an old fashioned glass-domed luxury train that leaves just outside Panama City at 7:15 AM called the Panama Railway Company.  The taxi driver gets me there after dropping his son off for work with two minutes to spare.  It takes a little over an hour to reach Colon, about 80 kilometers away on the Caribbean side of the country.

 

Along the way, you see intensely green vertical sections of jungle canopy, grasslands, lagoons, and the grayish southern expanses of Lake Gatun – a huge centrally located artificial lake created by damming the Chagres River back in the early 1900’s.  It took four years of rainfall to fill the lake, the largest artificial body of water in the world at the time.  Its purpose is to facilitate a regular supply of water to feed locks on both sides of the waterway.   The lagoons are much like those viewed weeks earlier when entering Guatemala along the Rio Dulce, only sans their Polynesian huts.

 

A bevy of shock troops – otherwise known as taxi drivers – lay siege to me immediately upon alighting from the train.  They want $60 for a half-day tour.  They flash promising signs listing all of what I am promised to see, then pull the signs back quickly.  I am assured of what a good deal I am getting … but of course, “only for today.”  I snort at their pricing.  Previous scouting tells me it is possible to achieve my travel objectives for half this price.  One persistent fellow however, follows.  His price lowers at virtually every pause.  He follows me through numerous intersections and is now two blocks removed from his lair.

 

The point of no return for him.  He now MUST make a deal.  We negotiate on exiting the Caribbean coastal port city of Colon – a seedy nightmare much like Porto Limon in Costa Rica – over to the Gatun Locks.  Visits will take place there to the old canal and the Gatun Locks, and then the “Nuevo Canal” where construction began in 2007 on an additional set of locks, expanded to meet the needs of modern supertankers and luxury liners. He is to wait in the interim, then return me to the bus station in Colon, where I will make a return to Panama City (which should take two hours by bus).  We agree on $35 for this combo.

The world famous Panama Canal is the result of of human imagination and ingenuity that goes back as far as the 16^th century when Spaniards first arrived at the narrowest point between North and South America, and realized the 50 mile-wide isthmus is the narrowest point between Europe and the Orient somewhere far off to the east.   A railroad first built by Americans helped moved tens of thousands of 49ers past the dangers of unfriendly natives in the American west on their way to California gold fields.

 

The first practical effort to build a bisecting waterway began with the French in 1880.  Their efforts endured heroically for 15 years, but fell victim to financial mismanagement and malaria, which killed over 20,000 workers in the course of their efforts.  Immediately after declaring independence from Columbia, Panama contracted with the United States in 1903 to complete the canal.  It was finished on August 15^th, 1914.  The US managed and controlled the waterway until Dec 31^st, 1999, at which time authority devolved to an autonomous Panamanian government authority, the ACP.  

 

It goes without saying that the Panama Canal remains one of the great engineering marvels of the world.  Over 15,000 vessels annually use its shortcut passage to bypass a long trip around Cape Horn at the southern tip of Argentina.  Ships worldwide are still constructed with the dimensions of the double locks at both ends (Gatun and Miraflores) in mind so as to be able to achieve this economy.

 

A middle set of locks (the Pedro Miguel Locks) stretches the journey out somewhat.  Overall passage takes eight to ten hours, from Colon on the north to Panama City on the south.  The locks themselves are 305 meters long, and 33.5 meters wide – sometimes only allowing two feet of clearance to either side for the largest of present day liners and tankers.  A mind-blowing 52 million gallons of fresh water is lost each time a ship is raised and lowered within these  double-doored water gates.

 

Also prominent in the overall canal passage is the Culebra/Gaillard Cut, a 14 kilometer excavation through Panama’s Continental Divide which so prominently shows in early construction films of the canal.  The material taken from this dig would have filled the Great Pyramids of Giza up to 63 times.  My grandfather worked on maintenance and expansion of this and other sections of the canal in the 1930’s.  At my father’s funeral back in October, some rather prominent photos are shown of the work being done, and the housing they lived in while stationed there.

 

Fees are higher than expected.  The Panamanians have carefully calculated what the lost time rounding Cape Horn and cost of added fuel would add to a journey, and priced their transit rates  somewhat marginally less.  Modern fees for passage can exceed $400,000.  Cruise ships pay over $125 per passenger.  The lowest fee ever paid (based on weight) was by 130-pound travel adventurer Richard Halliburton (The "Pride of Memphis, Tennessee"), who swam through over the course of eight days in 1928.  Cost of passage is just low enough that ships don’t hesitate standing in line for up to three days to enter the canal.  The lineup of offshore vessels waiting to enter reminds me of large yachts clustered for our annual 4^th of July fireworks program on Lake Union in Seattle.

 

A ship’s passage from coast to coast would therefore look something like this.  Starting in the Caribbean at Colon to the north, ships enter the canal passage and are raised 28 meters in three separate elevation steps to the high point, Lake Gatun.  From there they journey south through Gatun Lake, to the straight line Culebra Cut/Gaillard Cut, descend at the Pedro Miguel Locks, descend further to Miraflores Lake and then the Miraflores Locks, and finally emerge under the “Bridge of The Americas” arch at the Panama City Pacific end.

 

The Gatun Locks remain impressive even 100 years after their completion.  I watch as a Polynesian registered tanker named “Buddy” traverses its entire length.  It first enters from the Caribbean, then enters a primary lock chamber, and takes about ten minutes for that cavern to be filled via gravity feed from water uphill in Lake Gatun.  It is raised yet again in an intermediate chamber.  Then finally, it is raised to the level of the lake.

 

At each step, the ship is carefully tendered.  A Panamanian pilot is aboard.  Huge electric  “mules” (six to eight for each ship) ride cog railway tracks to each side of the locks to both pull the ships forward, and maintain tension so that side-to-side alignment is balanced.  Again at times, passage provides only two feet of clearance from gate walls, so equanimity is critical.  Huge humps where the lock water gates are located, allow these mules to ride up and over them and maintain constant contact (and tension) with the ships by way of steel cable mooring lines.

 

The Nuevo Canal is perhaps five minutes away by car from the Gatun Locks.  It was approved in 2006 by a plebiscite of the Panamanian people, who enthusiastically endorsed expanding the canal in a $5.2 billion project begun in 2007.  It was expected to be completed in 2014 in time for the centennial of the canal, but will run at least three years behind that.  The new mega-locks are to be 60% wider and 40% longer than the existing twin-locks which have served so admirably these last 100 years.

 

An open viewing overlook area reveals a massive pit, larger than any modern construction project save for the Three Gorges Dam in China.  The amount of rebar and steel reinforcement going into the concrete retaining walls and rolling (no longer swinging) gates is said to be 18 times that which was used to construct the Eiffel Tower in Paris.  Humans working on the structure are nearly invisible, dwarfed as they are by the scale of the project.

 

As part of the new expanded (third set) of locks being added at BOTH ends of the waterway, the canal expansion also (1) is to include a 6.1 kilometer Pacific Access Channel, directly joining the Miraflores area locks with the Culebra cut (2) widens and deepens the entrances on both the Pacific and Caribbean sides (3) Deepens Gatun Lake and the Culebra Cut (4) Raises the level of Gatun Lake by 1.5 feet (5) Adds a water conservation/recycling system for the new locks so that 60% less fresh water is used for each ship passage.

 

My tour ended, an air conditioned public bus better than we have back in Seattle is taken back to Panama City.  From there, maximizing the diminishing time remaining in both Panama and the trip overall, a local recommendation is followed.  Visit San Felipe rather than Casco Viejo.  This is the dignified part of the old city that remains crumbling in parts (like Havana), and has been colorfully and beautifully restored in others (like in Granada, San Cristobal, and Antigua).  The restored restaurants and boutique hotels are a particular delight.

 

I stop at the Restaurante Casablanca and have the best $9.75 paella bowl ever presented on the planet.  Nobody ever made it that well for that reasonable a price!  Two local beers – Atlas and Balboa – compliment the seafood nicely.  The first evening of the first full day in Panama City ends anticlimactically shortly thereafter, pursuing yet more souvenir shops, artistry displays, and the evening forget-me-not (the caipirinha) at a 4 kilometer breakwater known simply as “The Causeway.”

 

This palm-shaded walking, driving, skating, jogging, cycling and shopping haven was built by the US military with excavation tailings from the Panama Canal and connects four otherwise isolated islands: Naos, Culebra, Perico and Flamenco.  Views looking back over an inner harbor into the old city are very tranquil and the attractive blue and green skyline of modern Panama City’s towering glass skyscrapers can be enjoyed from here without the noise, pollution and traffic congestion of the city itself.

 

JACO -- AND PARQUE NACIONAL MANUEL ANTONIO

 

 

Thus begins the start of a long weekend drive to Jaco (Hawk-o).  Five hours away from La Fortuna, out of the highlands and in the center of the country on the Pacific coast. The primary surfing capital of Costa Rica (at least by reputation), alleged prostitution center of the country, and developer’s “never say no” paradise.  The type of place you either love or hate.  Tourists, hippies, surfers and land barons vs. disaffected Ticos and environmentalists.  I decide not to be swayed by either camp, and to sample the popular resort area for myself.  The trip – often in first or second gear – takes at least five hours.  I arrive well after dark.

 

The weather is still quite warm, but with a redeeming beachfront breeze.  Numerous storefront tiendas offer up souvenirs, casual and fine dining, drinks, and souvenir drinks.  Surfboards are for rent everywhere.  Surfing lessons are offered alongside.  Beach clothing is available in every permutation of color, size, and design.  Low cost is the only missing variable.

 

The shops are all modern.  The goods are still kitschy.  Jaco beach itself reminds me of Ipanema and Copacobana beaches in Rio de Janeiro.  It is a huge curving arc, very clean, well attended, and surprisingly … enjoyed mostly by families.  Jaco has the feel of a spring break sort of town yet for Mom ‘n Pop and the kids.  And a surprising number of touring retirees.

 

Part of what contributes to this feeling is the lack of stress in town.  You are not assaulted by carnival barkers insisting their family’s survival is dependent on spreading your filthy lucre locally.  There are plenty of people, but no crowds, and no long waiting lines.  Even during the high season, from December to April.  There is little to no pushiness.  No sidewalk sales aggression.  Vendors are polite, and don’t drag you by the arm into their shop for a look-see.

 

I pick a local restaurant for dinner, largely on the proximity of it to my rental car, the availability of wi-fi for internet access, and the fact I could watch Costa Rica dismantle El Salvador 1 – 0 in the ongoing Central America Cup.  The mandatory souvenir hunt takes place afterward (I am a looker, and rarely a buyer, because 45 days on the road mandates little success for bringing home your now Himalayan sized bags without prodigious extra tack-on fares).  Then the hunt for a hostel.  Luckily, I am familiar with the extremely easy to use and helpful HostelBookers.com.  Five minutes after booking a hostel online, I arrive at their doorstep.

 

The Jaco Inn is guarded like Fort Knox.  There are three barriers and then an iron gate across the driveway alone.  An all-night guard is also posted inside the compound.  I am wondering if they fear a prostitute invasion?  Or ransacking attempts from the nearby disco, where “Ladies Night” every night ensures a regular crowd to fraternize with hostel residents unless stern measures are taken to keep the local riffraff away from the great unwashed who reside with me for the evening.

 

With the late arrival and having enjoyed the initial (evening) introduction to Jaco so much, I decide to stay an extra day.  It begins with a rare breakfast, especially Americano style bacon and eggs.  Then a shirtless long walk along the beach, from the middle to both ends.  It is almost mandatory to get in that daily venture somewhere.  Then back the two blocks into town for an equally mandatory gesture, the afternoon caipirinha and now Bloody Mary exercise.  Suitably armed, a forced march is once again leveled against the beach.  This time with swimsuit under.  Unbelievably, this is the first time I enter the sea in eight countries and 42 days in Central America.

 

One of the reasons Jaco is so popular is the waves are right for just about everybody but the expert surfer.  And that set manages to find their perfect medium here at other (championship) times of the year.  For now, many beginners dot the crestlines of rhythmic pattern waves.  They are joined by waveboarders, and body surfers.  Most do not get any rides of distinction.  I am among them. Nobody notices.  It is a mellow and not particularly competitive place.

 

Later, a game of beach soccer informally begins.  Several local teenagers have been kicking the ball around, and occasionally kick it to me.  They are surprised that a gringo – and well over 35 something Gringo at that – knows what to do with the ball.  I don’t, really.  I play goalie in real life.  And fake the field stuff really well.  But they either don’t care or are desperate for players.  So I play pickup beach soccer for the very first time.  With teenagers.

 

The lines are unmarked.  Part of these include the advancing tide surges. The rules are unclear.  I merely follow.  Guard like I am supposed to. And occasionally make a run to the opposite goal.  On one of these, I make a goal.  And have several near misses on others.  At the more familiar defensive end, I block numerous goals, but allow two against much faster opponents.  In the end, the six of us play to a 4-4 tie.  I am happy to be able to walk and breathe still when it is all done.

 

Thoroughly sunburned, the next stop is made at a beach shower enclosure with private stalls.  One American dollar (widely accepted in Costa Rica and indeed, most all of Central America) gets you a cold shower – most welcome at this point – and a towel and a chiclets sized bar of soap.  Add another dollar, and they look the other way if you shower with a chica.  I have noticed for Central America that Rules always have a back door when extra money is involved.

 

And then next door to dinner.  Seafood soup, and the proverbial guacamole and chips.  Plus more caipirinhas, and more beer (hey, it is HOT out there!).  The sun descends rapidly, then sets even faster.  Naturally, my camera is not present.  I am traveling light, without backpack.  So the next best thing to the evening solar firestorm at Atitlan is not caught on film.  The image of the fierry orange oblong globe descending into a crimson and magenta colored sea remains seared in my mind, nevertheless.  Dancing and yet more liquid heat relief follows.  The hostel is not even approached, let alone entered, until well after midnight.

 

Part of the reason is solving a tidy little problem related to losing the key to the rental car.  I put money and a credit card safely into the bathing trunks, but neglected to treat the key with equal respect.  Needless to say, somewhere between the body surfing and the beach soccer, it too an “exit, stage left.”  The local locksmith smelled a Yankee, and charged $30 just to open the vehicle, and another $70 to make a surplus set of keys.  I had no choice but to agree.  No telling what new rules and related fines the car rental agency would have made up on the spot had I revealed that I’d lost their key.

 

Blogging until 4:15 AM (to make up for my habitual tardiness this trip) hardly prepares me for an early departure.  Up by 9 though, still groggier than a shanghaied sailor.  And bound for Manuel Antonio National Park.  While only the second smallest national park in Costa Rica, this coastline gem 80 minutes south of Jaco is disproportionately popular.  This is due to its accessibility, abundance of wildlife, and variety of landscape.  The road in is so narrow, and the streets so jammed the last three kilometers, that sometimes the shopping area around the entry has the feel of a Nascar event.

 

The draw is being able to walk up right next to tame park animals, and photograph them easily.  Nearly always present are sloths, lizards, squirrel monkeys, agoutis (capabari type small rats), coatis, and armadillos.  Occasionally parrots, macaws and toucans also show themselves.  Then there are the magnificent geographical features of the park.

 

Those include a long, curving beach much like at Jaco but with the added bonus of a palm lined perimeter (Playa Espadrilla Norte), the family playground of Manuel Antonio Beach, where surf meets narrow rocky defiles,  which create huge blowholes and eddies as the waves and tide  sweep inward toward a steeply inclined beach); or, the secretive and isolated Playa Puerto Escondido – where the romantically inclined are most likely to be found lingering in fond embrace in the softly surging surf of a lagoon type enclosure.

 

Leaving the park at the tail end of a loop trail, one encounters a waist deep channel perhaps 30 yards across.  Almost everybody here takes a so-called ferry (really a dugout canoe type punt that handles eight passengers at most).  The charge to cross is $1.  The passage takes perhaps one minute, max.  Nearby signs in large letters say Peligroso (Danger) and warn of the presence of crocodiles.  It is not until you are nearly across that you notice small school children, swimming with great ease amongst the roots of the mangrove swamp at rivulet’s edge.  Crocodiles?  Perhaps every other leap year.  A Croc?  Almost a sure bet …

 

Once again, the sunset driving back is not to be missed.  It appears as a brilliant orange H-bomb type mushroom glob on the horizon, that is at first bifurcated by a low hanging ribbon cloud, and then made whole again.  And once again, my camera is unavailable, having blown its last ounce of juice taking photos of lizards in Manuel Antonio.   The ride back to San Jose – which is supposed to take one and one-half hours – instead takes five with the Sunday evening traffic.  As a consequence, I miss my 11 PM all night bus to Panama City, and have to settle for a bus the following day at noon.  Costa Rica will just have to endure me for another day.   

 VOLCAN POAS AND  LA FORTUNA

 

 

Volcan Poas is the most accessible of the many volcanoes which form a semi-circle around San Jose. It rises to more than 8800 feet above sea level and nearly a mile above the highland plain that harbors the capital city.  The drive up from the plain is both beautiful and curious.  It is a primary tourist artery, that has driveway style roads which make you shake your head in wonder how visitor buses ever make it up this far.  Along the way, numerous roadside stands offer strawberries dipped in chocolate.  The view out over greater San Jose as you approach the top is stunning.

 

Once at the top in my newly obtained rental car, a walk beyond the visitor’s center leads to two craters.  The primary one is Volcan Poas itself.  It is huge, steamy, and inaccessible.  It still smokes from fuminoles in the fractured abyss of the crater floor at the perimeter of a milky lake dominating its center.  The other turquoise beauty (Laguna Botos) is found at the virtual peak of the volcano, a modest uphill hike through shaded pathways necessary to reach its pleasing view.  Those who have the time (or care to) can walk downhill a short distance to bathe in its pure waters.

 

I have rented a navigation system to go with the car, given language differences and differing methods of announcing intersections and directional signs in this part of the world.  The nav system artfully chooses to direct me, via the long and main route … which is to say, nearly back to San Jose and then north around the flank of Poas to the still-active Volcan Arenal and recreational area of La Fortuna.  A trip that normally takes three and one-half hours tops, stretches into five.  Arrival is just in time for directions and advice from a new tourist information office on the entry into town.  Dusk quickly ensues.  What to do at this time of the evening?

 

Baldi Hot Springs offers for $35 an all—day retreat to its 17 thermal heated pools.  Is four hours relaxation only in the evening worthwhile to make this bite from the wallet worthwhile?  I decide that it is. The temperatures and design of each pool changes, depending on its distance from the resort front entry.  The front pools have mid-grade temperatures and waterside bar stools, to lure the unresolved in from distance of the entry portico.  Drink AND soak?  Who wouldn’t want to do that?

 

But before even departing for the towel and dressing room, I learn that dinner at the top of the pools is included in the price.  This is a welcome change from the norm in Central America, where the standard rule is “overpromise and under-deliver.”  Now it is clear somebody is watching out for me and the wise choice as to time and money has been made for the evening.

 

Moving slightly uphill from the entry, as each pool becomes slightly more complicated in design (and privacy, mindful of water grottoes at the Playboy Mansion in Chicago), the volume and heat of the water increases.  Pool temperatures reach up to 120 degrees Fahrenheit.  None are too hot, if taken gradually.  This is usually accomplished by standing three feet out from the many artificial waterfalls, and backing in – first getting used to the spray, and then gradually the directed pour of the small vertical streams themselves.

 

My favorite is about thirty-five to forty feet high.  Just the right amount of heat and shaped stream of water.  Not too wide, and not too deep so as to lose power.  Just right for tension relief.  It provides enough consistent pounding pressure to ensure the best shiatsu session I have ever had.   Your head throbs if left under this downpour too long.  But the shoulders can take every minute of it, and if bent over, your back offers up unconscious prayers to the universe for the gift of mercy it receives.  You move around, to get the pulsed pounding in different muscle groups. This is a difficult pool to leave.  Every home ought to have one of these!

 

After two and one-half hours of trying every pool, every bench, every steam room and every waterfall, it feels as if it is time to leave.  A body can only grow so relaxed.  And then, the coup de grace.  Relaxation has been so complete, it has been overlooked that the waterslides at the top of the hill remain untrodden.  So like kids on a camp holiday, we troop rapidly up the stairs to see what awaits.

 

It is a three-run platform, with a drop of approximately forty feet.  The first is a rather modest closed corkscrew design without steep drops and allows riding on your belly.  The second is a riskier closed tube Diablo that curves like convoluted spaghetti in total darkness until finishing in a sharp 45 degree final descent.  A number of people have not leaned back far enough and glanced their foreheads against the top of this tube.  Only forward facing, seating descents are allowed here.  A third trough is open, straightforward, and dips in graduated stages toward the waiting pools below.  Any descent posture you can imagine is allowed here.

 

Naturally the riskiest descent second tube is chosen for the first ride.  It is an involuntary screamer.  The total blackness of the cylinder below you disorients immediately.  The only presence of mind available is “what am I going to careen off of?”  When the final drop arrives, it is so sudden that the pool water is slicing into your eyes before you realize the descent has even started.  You emerge from the tube “spikes high” and thrashing water like a kamikaze fighter plane ditching into the ocean.

 

Three rides are taken on this thrilling second section.  The first tube proves to be too tame.  The third tube proves to be the best of all.  No reason to go down seated.  Belly first.  No hesitation.  Put the hands forward, as if in a swan dive, and straight down – yodeling all the way.  The test drive over, I take a second run with the notion of increasing speed.  That means up on elbows and knees primarily to lessen friction with the tube floor.  I go shooting out of the bottom parallel with the surface of the receiving pool, and hydroplane far beyond the expected landing area.

With much momentum still at hand, I am suddenly stopped.

 

“What the hell,” I mutter to myself, and shake my head to clear hair out of my eyes.  My hands are in full arrest, cupping the bikinied breasts of a 50 year-old woman I’d talked to earlier in the night whose birthday was being celebrated at Baldi.  She is far from peeved.  She winks at me and explains: “If I’d known you were coming I’d have prepared better.  Was it as good for you as it was for me?”  Her husband is laughing so hard he can’t offer any retort.

 

The following morning an 8 AM pickup van from our guide service at Arenal Mundo Aventura  arrives to take us collected acventurers to an 11-platform canopy cover excursion in the foothills of Volcan Arenal.  The arrayed zip-lines are close to La Catarata (waterfall) de La Fortuna.   After initial equipment checkout and safety training, an uphill ride through the jungle is taken that is so steep a low-geared tractor is necessary to pull our passenger car.  A similarly steep twenty minute uphill hike to the initial platform follows.

 

The preparation is all about safety.  Safety signals, and safety equipment.  There are top and bottom rock climbing harnesses that are cinched for individual fit.  The harnesses are locked into a metal pulley which rides over the zip line, and locked in further with triple carabiners.  Your strongest hand embraces a thick felt and leather glove which is grooved to act as a brake in the final moments of each of the 11 journeys making up the excursion.  They are very effective, even in wet weather. If held far enough behind you to act as a stabilizing force, that is.

 

The first few runs are modest affairs, meant to build confidence for those without the “certifiable” gene.  The rider is meant to get his or her braking distance calibrated, learn to maintain proper distance from the pulley with the braking glove, keep the legs crossed in front, balance as well as possible, and still enjoy the view.  It often consists of slamming through initial high canopy cover, breaking suddenly into the opening to a yawning gap (tallest was 180 meters) beneath you, and then riding gently uphill to additional canopy cover at the end.  The initial runs are 400 to 500 meters – approximately one-quarter of a mile.

 

Then back to back, the two “Big Boys.”  The 600 meter ride high above the canopy floor and past the shimmering ribbon-like 70 meter face of Catarata de La Fortuna.  Some lose their nerve on this section, and have to be taken tandem after this by guides who link harnesses and provide a measure of reassurance for the exposed runs which follow.

 

The other is the longest, a gentle 900 meter glide that seems to take forever and in fact makes one wonder if they will ever make it to the other side.   On my turn during this run, I look back at the waterfall.  My right or brake hand comes too far forward.  I get twisted somewhat into the pulley, and lose momentum.  The result is I do not have enough juice at the end of the run to make it all the way to the platform.  Previous training has prepared us to then turn backward, and pull ourselves hand-over-hand the final 25 meters to the waiting guides.

 

On other platforms, particularly those that are a much steeper and therefore faster ride, there are various adjunct braking devices at the end of the line to assist those who have come in “too high, too hot” and are in danger of banging fiercely against the terminal knot at the end of each zip line.  Some are plastic cones that snap away and provide a grinding belay sort of stop.  Others are thick blue ropes, wrapped around the zip line and meant to grudgingly give ground such that a very rapid stop is effected in a dynamic manner.

 

The secret goal of all of us, of course, is to come in so high and so hot that we snap the blue rope out of the guide’s hand, while not arriving so rapidly that our genital areas are rammed and our necks snapped back by the terminal knot which binds each zip line to its tower or platform.  High fives are given for the best hot landing at each platform.  Surprisingly, it is the women who consistently are the best performers in this subtle bit of bravado.  They consistently make the guides reel and backlash from necessary restraint to contain arrivals in the final moments of each descent. Smug looks of satisfaction upon departure to the next landing indicate that this is no mistake.

 

Our return to town is not via tractor once again, but by horseback.  It is a pleasant journey, free of drama.  The horses know the route and virtually guide themselves.  The only steering, really, is that necessary to keep the animals from clustering together and gossiping while they work.  Along the way, we stop at an indigenous village … mock village, really, as those who appear before us don’t really live there … for a demonstration of their raison d’ etre and (even the natives have caught on to the use of buzz words) green way of life.

 

Crafts are offered, of course -- at far above the normal trinket prices.  This is because the speeches and demonstration are played out with great earnestness and solemnity.  As if the tribe will utterly disappear should we not buy at least one mask or one talisman or one piece of faux pottery.  We are dipped into the numbing elixir of peer pressure and that politically correct mindset that says: “This is an authentic moment.  You must participate.  The Gods will be angry if you refuse them.”  Wallets therefore open much more willingly than normal, and are notably thinner upon the conclusion of the demonstration.  Salve for the western conscience, in exchange for greenbacks.

 

Along the exit south, the delightful shores of Lake Arenal make up for the lack of visibility of Volcan Arenal.  There are no red-hot mudslides or steaming fuminoles to be viewed this day.  I do witness however, in villas and casitas ringing the lake, the most consistently pleasing portion of Costa Rica viewed yet to date.  Including a fun lunch stop at “Toad Hall.”  No idea of the reason for the name.  But it is the Tico version of famous Wall Drug in South Dakota, which advertises its strange presence on monotonous billboards 300 miles in either direction prior to your arrival.  I have the best Bloody Mary ever tasted there.  And some of the best fish tacos.  They promised it would happen, and managed to deliver.

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.”