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.”  

SAN JOSE, COSTA RICA

 

 

You didn’t really think I was going to enter Paradise, and continue writing at the same pace, did you?  No?  Sorry for the delays, but I have hit my Nirvana for this 45-day adventure.  As expected.  Costa Rica is everything is it cranked up to be.  I have budgeted 10 days here, and wish I had allowed for 100.  This beautiful country – “The Switzerland of Central America” – will definitely get a return engagement some day.

 

The first thing I notice in my journey south from La Cruz to the capital of San Jose (located smack dab in the middle of Costa Rica in the central highlands) is the varied topography.  Over a five-hour bus leg, I am able to enjoy multiple shades of green extent in low canopy jungle, grasslands, savannah, farmlands (primarily coffee and bananas are harvested), coastal mangrove swamps,  and pine forests amidst several pass-through National Parks along the Pan American Highway.

 

The road is of fine quality but slow due to being single lane most of its length.  Costa Ricans (or Ticos) are very safe and considerate drivers.  They brake early, don’t ride the bumper of the vehicle in front, let others turn in front of them, and let other vehicles pass.  They do however, have the alarming addiction of being glued to their mobile phones and using them constantly in the course of driving.  Bus drivers especially.

 

I arrive in the city about 2:30 in the afternoon, and immediately get a reasonably priced $6 taxi ride to a hostel that had been recommended by HostelBookers.com about six kilometers away, The Costa Rica Guest House.  It has huge rooms (more than I needed), each with multiple beds, clean bathrooms, hot water on demand, breakfast included, concierge travel services, and bi or tri-lingual attendants who help with every imaginable question.  All for about $32 nightly.  The rest of the evening is spent catching up.  Admin duties and a need for blogging discipline never seems to take a break.

 

I am here during the High Season.  The time from December to April when cooler temperatures prevail (average temperature year round in San Jose, about 72 degrees farenheit) and tourists take their sun lizard vacations south of the border.  Prices are higher than normal now, then settle down with the summer heat.  The weather is sunny, and delightfully cool in the nights.  As usual, crowds emerge then, and restaurants do most of their business later in the evenings.

 

The late meal (supper, with heavier “dinners” taken more at mid-day) is enjoyed with newly arrived special company at a brand new Italian eatery several blocks distant.  The new kitchen had only been in business for ten days.  I am treated to the best meat lover’s calzone I have ever experienced.  A caprese salad is accompaniment, along with a generous portion of garlic bread.  Local beer (Imperial) acted as the wash-down.

 

The next day (Sunday) is an orientation day.  And ordinarily, I have only one of these -- in metropolitan areas especially.  Large cities are generally to be avoided, unless there are an abundance of architecturally significant cathedrals, castles, or quality art museums.  Then it is off for an activity in the hinterlands.  Not so with this town.  My immediate goal becomes getting used to San Jose, which at 350,000 is a relatively small town for a Capital City.  The public and tourist areas are centered about intersecting Avenida Central, and Calle Central.  Surprisingly the usual concentration of Catholic churches and public squares are not evident in this central shopping district.

 

Hours are spent, snacking on local foods such as ceviche and guacamole and chips.  Then shopping for potential gifts back home.  Visits are made to the Museo de Oro (Gold Museum), and then followup jaunts to the uninspired Contemporary Art Museum and finally the riveting Museum of Costa Rican Art.  Given that I arrive 15 minutes before closing, the ticket taker at the door lets me in to tour for free.  “Whirlwind,” again.

 

During this entire afternoon of wandering and snacking and shopping, getting a map of all of Costa Rica and obtaining both timely plus relevant tourist information prove surprisingly difficult to obtain, without retaining the assistance of a booking agency.

 

My second night’s meal is enjoyed at a Peruvian restaurant close to my hostel.  Simply put, the food is extraordinary and well valued. It includes a Pisco Sour (the Peruvian national drink), a caipirinha of course, Peruvian potatoes in crème sauce, a bit of red wine, spiced ceviche, and Peruvian spaghetti verde con pesto.  It may have been the best I’ve ever tasted.  Or at least the best in years.

 

A second full day in San Jose begins with a two-hour session with Miriam, a charming tri-lingual French attendant at my hostel who explains all the primary attractions within reasonable commuting distance of the capital.  Most of these attractions are in Costa Rica’s fine collection of National Parks which dominate the central highlands and both coasts – Caribbean and Pacific. Those include volcanoes, beaches, canopy-cover platform tours, scuba diving, snorkeling, waterfalls, hot springs, bungee jumping, caving, river rafting, bird watching, and animal watching.

 

She carefully and patiently explains the features of each attraction, the cost of getting there, multiple transportation potential timelines, and the cost of the attraction itself.  There are simply too many demanding choices.  I must narrow down the field, in order to see a broader spectrum of the country.  More sightseeing travel in a rental car (which Miriam helps with also), and less in the way of focused nearby activities.  I decide on an overall route which still includes river rafting, animal viewing, a volcano viewing and hot springs daily double, canopy cover platform tour, beach time, and a possible bungee jump.  Or two.   

 

The afternoon excursion is to an artisan’s market in the areas traversed repeatedly the previous day.  So many clever, colorful, creative, and compelling crafts are exhibited!  If only I had room and the will to display them all.  But I am in a mindset at this point in my life, where I am trying to get rid of things, and not acquire more.  If not purchased for others, arts and crafts remain items that are admired either momentarily or only at a distance.  None will be taken home.

 

Sunday evening’s entertainment consists of a most welcome soccer match, Costa Rica vs. Nicaragua in the Central America Cup.  I learn during this match that Leo Gonzales, a quality defending fullback for my Major League Soccer Seattle Sounders, is a Tico.  The tickets, purchased last minute from a scalper yards from the stadium, cost only $8 each.  That buys a seat on the 50 yard line, about 18 rows up.  A very good viewing location.

 

Costa Rica is supposed to be much better than Nicaragua.  The away team is a newbie in the arena of  international soccer.  Costa Rica scores an early goal on a very athletic header, that I am lucky enough to catch through a telephoto from a perch halfway up the stadium tiered seating at the exact moment the ball crosses the goal line before reaching the back of the net.

 

Never the less, Nicaragua maintains a stalwart defensive front, largely due to the inspired play of their goalie.  The contest remains tight – with Nicaragua playing better than usual and Costa Rica playing down to their less experienced competitors -- until about ten minutes remain, at which time the home team scores on yet another header.  The very accomplished goalie had no chance at the ball.  The Ticos finish the evening, proud 2-0 winners.  Much singing and scarf waving accompany the victory.

 

There is no celebrating or carousing this night for me, however.  A 5:30 wakeup call awaits, for a long haul out to the southeast and the Rio Pacuare for Costa Rica's best river rafting.

SAN SALVADOR, MANAGUA,  GRANADA AND OMETEPE

 

 

If ever a duller post need be writ, I can not imagine it.  I am now in a race to get south and spend adequate time in Costa Rica and Panama to finish out the last third of the trip in style.  Thus, this brief interlude follows long days on the bus, and leaves little in the way of lasting impressions.

 

From Ocotepeque a taxi is taken across the El Salvador border.   Plenty of security present, with both army and police showing their colors in great number.  Not sure what the local or national issues are, but did notice in eating dinner the night previous leading headlines talking about violence, the current crisis being bad for the region, and a family of eight being slaughtered.  I got the impression it was narco traffic related, but could not tell for certain.  Seems like Honduras therefore was a good place to be leaving.

 

I have chosen the village of La Palma as an initial target destination in El Salvador, due to the murals they have all over town.  It is a 15 minute ride across the border.  The murals turn out to be different than expected, with many walls and buildings painted in patterns and simple mural forms – not the storytelling, cover the entire wall versions I had expected.  While inquiring about “a tour of the murals,” I run into something even better.  The artisan shop of Felipe Argueta.

 

He employs two-thirds of the people in town, at his business Creaciones Artisticas.  His employees paint in a simple expressionistic style germane to the region.  Their wares include music boxes, calendars, matchboxes, notepads, figurines, and memory boxes.  I have run into him accidentally in an encounter with his daughter Wendy, who does some translating for me.  He invites me inside for a personal tour of his modest factory.

 

I am delighted at their colorful and playful art, their apparent satisfaction, the quality of the working conditions (so in contrast to much of this part of the world), and his willingness to share with a stranger who … once again … is asking way too many questions.  Too soon, it is time to move on.  Another chicken bus to catch.  This time for San Salvador.

 

Didn’t do justice to the capital city, either.  Hardly got a look at it.  Taxi driver took me to the wrong destination, and since my arrival was late (again) there was little time to argue.  Just set up the room (which probably belonged to a friend of his), check e-mail quickly, and depart for something to eat.  The meal is taken in a rare chain style restaurant and while pleasing, there is nothing remarkable about la comida.  A single drink afterward listening to a mariachi band only serves to act as a sleeping tonic.

 

A couple observations about El Salvador prior to a too-rapid departure.  The people are very hard working.  The men seem to be more ambitious here than in Guatemala and Honduras.  They are decidedly more prosperous.  Their economy (the same as Ecuador) is based on the US dollar and is said to be the best in Central America.  A gallon of gas was $3.99.  Plenty of late-model cars are in evidence.  The air is cleaner, with little of the choking diesel exhaust found even in the mountain passes of Guatemala.  In a physiognomy sense, the populace is a little more slender, a little whiter, and prone to wearing western style modern clothing rather than the traditional garb  I have experienced over the past two weeks.

 

The following day, I receive unparalleled assistance from the concierge at the beautiful Intercontinental Hotel in reviewing options for getting down to Nicaragua.  Teguciculpa, the capital of Honduras, is considered for additional time since it is halfway along the journey.  But I am running out of days and want to really focus on Costa Rica.  So a long 12 hour bus ride direct to Managua instead ensues.  The concierge provides for everything, makes multiple phone calls on my behalf, has no commission motive, arranges my taxi, and asks for nothing in return.  That is typical El Salvador.

 

The bus is more comfortable than many first class seats on American jets.  It is a double decker, with a quiet turbodiesel engine, a modern and clean bathroom on the lower level, shades, overhead storage racks, meals, and plenty to drink.  Only thing they didn’t have was a view.  The windows were dusty, and the glare so intense having shades down until sunset was mandatory.  So I got twelve hours to contemplate my navel to the universe.

 

This included border crossings – always an adventure – into first Honduras again (and of course, they demand another entry fee of  $3) followed about four hours later by Nicaragua.  Nicaragua charged each of us on the bus $14 as an entry gratuity.  We are made to feel nothing if not assured and comfortable, on both sides of both borders.  Finally arrive in Managua about 1:30 AM.  The ride has been easy.  But still energy draining.

 

 Now, every guidebook warns about Managua at night.  Security precautions are immediately evident.  Every hawker trying to part you from your cash for taxi or hotel services, emphasizes the security at their hotel.  I was really only seeking actual hot water and wi-fi, but they know something I don’t.

 

Even being allowed outside the bus station, requires a security guard to unlock a gate and then accompany you out to the taxi.  Two men stand by as guards while visiting the ATM.  Even at this hour of the morning.  My taxi ride costs $3.  A room is easily negotiated down from $40 to $28.  I spend the night, but don’t linger long.  Off again early the next morning for Granada, along the shores of Lake Nicaragua and one of those exquisite colonial cities that pave the Pan American Highway from Mexico to Panama City.

 

And what can be said about Granada that has not already been proclaimed about Antigua, San Cristobal, Merida, Old San Juan in Puerto Rico, and the standard colonial gems of Hispanic America?  It is colorful.  It has romantic architecture, an inspired mission style I have always found attractive, given that I grew up in Santa Barbara, California.  It has your standard sets of multiple Catholic churches.  Your well-attended public square and statues.  It is clean.  And it has a fun tourist prominade called Calle La Calizada.

 

The food and drink bargains there are to die for, la brisa coming from the lake rejuvenates in the afternoon heat, you meet folks from all over the world, the shopping is varied and interesting, and the walking itself is very pleasant … not quite up to the standards of Las Ramblas in Barcelona, for example, but very enjoyable nevertheless.  The later the hour, the greater the crowds.  They tend to filter in for drinks and dining after the heat wears off for the day.  And then the crowds just keep growing.  Granada is a fun city that has not been given its due.

 

I take my leave reluctantly from Nicaragua the following day.  Having missed the last of the direct collective buses for San Jose in Costa Rica (an eight hour trip), I decide once again to focus on Isla de Ometepe.  This is two hours away, out of Rivas on the shores of Lake Nicaragua – the largest body of fresh water in Central America.  It is a twin-headed volcano whose flows have together created an isle, which dominates Lake Nicaragua.  The island is famous for its rustic way of life and statues plus petroglyphs depicting humans, birds, animals, and geometric shapes.

 

The 3:30 boat out is supposed to take 45 minutes.  However, the afternoon wind has thrashed the huge lake into a frenzied chop, so that the trip actually takes an hour and one-half.  And while aboard, I am told the last boat of the day returns at 5:30.   Not 7 pm, as advised previously. Only half an hour remains to explore the island, or be forced to spend the night there.  My resulting death march in half an hour covers seven blocks up and back, a trip to the ATM, and a hurry-up pizza and cerveza with the cook promised a bonus if I can make it back to the boat on time with meal in hand.  He delivers.

 

There is not much that can be said about this beautiful, brooding place without a complete circumnavigation of the island.  I miss the celebrated statues and petroglyphs but get some alluring photo opportunities, including of our boat tilted at what seemed to be 45 degrees to port.

Coming home, the purser appears to have shortchanged me.  He does not give the correct cambia from a single bill given him for return passage to the Nicaraguan mainland. 

 

I ask for the correct change, he tries to go past me and brushes me off, then plays to the crowd.  “See what this imperialist Yankee pig is doing to me?” he seems to indicate with a dismissive wave of his hand and a broad, paternal smile.  I raise my voice.  He disappears, and promises to return with the correct change.  Nobody speaks English (who will get involved, at least), to explain that this man has shortchanged me and is trying to pinch my wallet.  The purser and I circle each other like wary wolves.

 

Finally, one woman comes up and explains to me the change is different because our return passage is on a different boat and the fee is somewhat higher.  Same voyage.  Same shipping line.  Same purser providing change.  No sign or announcement indicating a difference in fare.  Somehow I am supposed to know this.  Finally however, smiles break out all around, many Muchas Gracias are conveyed, and the purser and I emphatically shake hands.

 

Then break for the border.  It is about 45 minutes away, to La Frontera with Costa Rica.  There is not much more than I can do in Nicaragua.  What minimal time that has been allowed has pretty well already been maximized.  The taxi driver understands in his very limited knowledge of English that there is still a bonus in it for him if he can get me to the 8 PM collectivo bus leaving La Frontera for San Jose – the capital of Costa Rica.  That is a five hour drive from the border.   This is the part I Thank God that there are limited liability laws in this part of the world and American jurisprudence doesn’t rule the roost here.

 

For my cabbie nearly collides with every stroller, wheelchair, donkey-drawn cart, parallel taxi and pedestrian for the next 40 miles.  It is like the chase scene in “The French Connection.” Our speed exceeds 120 miles per hour on most of the run, and his wheels are outracing his lights.  We appear to be going around corners especially, blind as bats.  He gets me to the border 10 minutes early, and gets his bonus.  But I still do not make the 8 PM collectivo.  For the border crossing between Nicaragua and Costa Rica must be among the worst in the world for two countries not actually at war.  It makes Checkpoint Charlie in Berlin look like a kindergarten crosswalk.

 

First, you disembark from your vehicle on the Nicaraguan side.  Then, you have to walk a quarter of a mile on a rutted road with suitcases bouncing, flipping and turning past two guards each asking for your passport (one is Nicaraguan, another Costa Rican).  About thirty yards apart.  But well inside Nicaragua still.  Then, perhaps another quarter of a mile to the Nicaraguan border station, where you pay your $2 exit fee.  Then walk another quarter mile, once again on a rutted road with an indistinct left hand turn, toward the Costa Rica border station.  Two more functionaries stop me and ask for my passport.  Finally, the Tica at the Costa Rica station stamps my passport, accepts my entry fee, and passes me through.

 

Straight to a lineup of waiting taxi ambush artists.  They tell me I have missed the collectivo.  This is the equivalent of course, of “that is a bad hotel, you don’t want to go there, and it is full anyway and by the way I just happen to have a suggestion for you as to a safe place where you can stay.”  This relationship between cabbies and hotel owners is the same kind of relationship enjoyed by sharks and amphora fish.  Completely mutually supportive and symbiotic, but depending on who fleeces you the most thoroughly, I really don’t know which entrepreneur is the biggest predator.  Sometimes they simply take turns taking the bigger bite out of you

 

The last two negotiations of the night then, are the taxi ride (where a standard rate of $1 per kilometer is hinted at, except for the added night time premium, of course).  I threaten to go to another taxi until I get my price.  Twenty miles, for 18 dollars.  And then the hotel, at La Cruz – the first town inside the Costa Rican border.  They are no longer hovels with barely running or nonexistent water.  These are Holiday Inn quality quarters that charge $40 to $50 nightly.  “You are in Costa Rica now,” I am told.  “We have different standards here.  The prices are a bit higher.” I find the service is no better particularly, than further north, and the staff no more friendly.  Reality is, they are ALL quite friendly.  Apparently the change is mostly due to infrastructure differences.