Pura Vida! Costa Rica

Pura Vida! Costa Rica’s official tagline is not only descriptive of the natural beauty found in every nook and cranny of the country, but is a phrase that appropriately describes the people of this small nation. Pure Life is what people live by. It’s in their attitude, in their music, in their food, and can even be found on the grubbiest street in the poorest area. For decades Costa Rica has grasped the imaginations of foreigners as an exotic and somewhat mystical place. After an unforgettable visit I am pleased to say that this is not only true, but is probably the most conservative way to describe this incredible country.

A nature lover’s paradise, Monteverde was my first stop. A unique ecosystem where the high altitude throws an almost constant mist blanket over the jungle covered mountains, and where the rainfall is a generous 3000ml per annum. Monteverde’s European-style town of Santa Elena was cold and misty, a welcome change after the almost unbearable humidity of Nicaragua. World famous ziplining is what attracts the crowds here, but I opted to spend my time hiking in the unique rainforest reserves surrounding the small town.

The tall Kapok and giant Ceiba trees reach over 40 meters in height, and stretch out their leafy canopy where countless birds, small mammals, and insects venture unnoticed. The tree’s towering trunks are layered in various types of colourful mosses, ferns, and orchids, creating further smaller ecosystems within the already unique rainforest. Only when you crane your neck back and teeter on the edge of your heels can you appreciate the immense spread of the canopy above you. Patterns and silhouettes flow into one another and form an almost impenetrable roof above the damp forest. This world was a new experience for me, and can only be compared to something one would find in the enchanted forests of fairy books or perhaps Jurassic Park, which unsurprisingly, was filmed in Costa Rica.

The otherworldly paradise of Monteverde is home to sloths, giant tarantulas, monkeys, and tree porcupines, all of which I was privileged to see in the wild.

One of Costa Rica’s biggest attractions is Manuel Antonio National Park on the Pacific coast, ‘not to be missed’ in my guidebook. The park is indeed beautiful, but a bit of a let-down after seeing Monteverde. The beaten path in Manuel Antonio can more accurately be described as sunken thanks to the average size of the American tourists that frequent the area. The beaches, however, are something worth writing home about. Curving bays of white powdery sand and leaning palms fringe the edge of the azure ocean – a welcomed sight after being on so many black volcanic beaches where temperatures soar to uncomfortable levels. Raccoons and capuchin monkeys taunt the visitors and a lazy sloth provided me with several hours of entertainment as I watched it move above me from branch to branch with effortless ease, stretching out its long limbs and grabbing leaves in perfect slow motion. 

The thing I wanted to see most in Costa Rica was the Corcovado National Park. The remote reserve lies on the edge of the Osa Penninsula in the country’s most southwest corner. The Park is said to be a gem of biodiversity and has been described as the most biologically intense place on earth by National Geographic magazine. The lure was too much to ignore and so began the long and painful journey of discovery into Corcovado. 

Day 1

I met my guide, Nito, and his friend, an American botonist named John, at the local bakery at 4am, armed with small backpacks full of supplies for the next 3 days. We drove through farmlands and rainforest for two hours before eventually reaching the start of the hike. I peered out the window and watched as the blue sky slowly turned to grey and a soft drizzle began to fall. At 6am we reached La Palma, the start of our hike.

After a strong cup of coffee Nito suggested we get a move-on as we needed to make it to the Sirena ranger station – 25km’s away - before the rain swelled the rivers too much – 5 in total – resulting in us not being able to cross them, and camping the night next to a raging torrent with no shelter. There were far too many scary details in his blasé statement and I avoided asking any further questions in case he had to confirm that yes, in fact we were about to hike 25 kilometers through dense tropical rainforest and cross five rivers before the sun sets.

Not even ten minutes into the hike and I was already drenched. It was as if the sky literally opened up and poured a giant bucket of water over our heads, only the bucket was neverending. The rain fell harder and harder, and got louder and louder as each minute passed. My futile attempt to hop, skip and jump onto vegetation and stones to avoid the mud came to an abrupt end when I slipped down the path and landed in ankle deep black mud. My toes squelched in my socks and the rain poured off my nose. Our relief from mud-soaked shoes came from crossing several furious streams that reacted immediately to the downpour thanks to their close proximity to the ocean. 

Nito had a great idea - we would take a shortcut to the Los Patos station (having already decided it was too dangerous to hike all the way to the Sirena station).

The non-existent path he led us on was little more than a slight parting between dense vegetation. We trudged on through the downpour with less than 2 meters visibility. We climbed up waterfall-like banks, and down muddy ravines slipping and sliding and falling to our knees as we tried to find a place our shoes would grip. I soon found out (unintentionally) that a convenient alternative to careful footing was to simply bumslide down a muddy path and hope that a soft bush broke my fall.

Every now and then we grasped a minute of shelter under a giant palm or delicious monster leaf where occasionally Nito would point out an interesting plant or insect – all of which seemed completely oblivious to the Armageddon-like conditions befalling us. He pointed out the Malo mujer (bad lady), a vicious nettle type plant which, if you graze past its leaves or stem, will inject an acid into your skin and turn the connective tissue black before eventually killing it – something I wish Nito had mentioned prior to me indiscriminately grabbing every root, branch, and leaf in sight in order to hoist myself up the vertical trail.

After what seemed like the great flood, we eventually reached the Los Patos station and collapsed on the sheltered wooden deck. The rain was still beating down and showed no signs of letting up.

Completely drenched with a freezing body and muddy legs I couldn’t wait to have a hot shower and climb into dry clothes. Silly me. Why would there be hot water at a newly refurbished ranger station when they could use their funds for bread-makers and welcome mats instead? The cold shower spouted out a single stream of icy water. The powerful waterfall thudded onto my back and chest as I winced like a puppy with each splash, and tensed in utter discomfort as I de-mudded my dirty body. My backpack had no hope of staying dry, and all my clothes were wet through. My long pants, my dry underwear, my one and only jersey – all soaking.

I painfully pulled some wet shorts and a t-shirt onto my dry, clean body and cringed at the realization that in no way had my level of comfort improved since having dragged myself up several muddy mountainsides.

Javier was bubbly and full of enthusiasm at our arrival. It’s not often he gets overnight guests, they normally just pass through on their way to Sirena. He offered us some fantastic meaty soup, which I guzzled down as if it was the last meal on earth. The steaming liquid brought some relief to my shivering body as it slowly warmed me from the inside out. Next on the menu was some slightly suspect looking homemade pineapple brew. Javier offered it to me with such pride that I couldn’t dare disappoint him, besides, Nito said it would warm me up so no further encouragement was needed.

The chicha was actually delicious. Sweet and tangy with a strong hit of alcohol towards the end of each sip. It glided down my throat and into my stomach where it continued to stoke an oven of warmth. Before I knew it I had sipped back a beer glass of the stuff and was feeling positively light-headed – the edge had well and truly been taken off. The good feelings didn’t last long as I politely asked how the chicha was made. In a descriptive and far too detailed account of the process, Nito explained how the men in front of me (with very few teeth and definitely not the owners of toothbrushes) chew on pieces of pineapple until it’s sufficiently covered in enzymes, and then leave it in a bucket of water to ferment for a week before consuming it! Well, needless to say I instantly felt queasy and tried desperately to contain my disgust. Apparently my face told a thousand words and all the men erupted into fits of laughter as I clutched my mouth in horror. 

Day 2

My clothes were still damp and cold from the previous day’s escapades, but today I looked forward to an 8 hour hike through some of the most biodiverse rainforest in the world. The skies showed signs of parting and occasionally exposed a cornflower blue glint of hope. The first few rivers had calmed and subsided allowing us to cross at waist height. The continuous up’s and down’s of the watershed we were crossing were blanketed in the most beautiful vegetation and plant life I have ever seen. Palms of every shape, colour, and size covered the damp ground and spread their giant leaves high into the sky and stretched their roots across the trail and beyond. The immense size of tree’s trunks and the diversity of the plant and flower species at every turn were overwhelming. The utter natural beauty of our pristine surroundings was moving to say the least.

Toucans fluttered from branch to branch and Scarlet macaws screeched loudly in the distance. As the day got continuously warmer the animal life crept out the dense vegetation, finally, a chance to dry off and go in search of food. John, quite possibly the world’s most enthusiastic botanist, didn’t let a single plant go unnoticed, let alone unphotographed or unlectured about. His information was fascinating, even if a little abundant. I learnt about the walking palm (it stops and starts the growth of its roots on different sides in order to “walk” into sunnier spots); the labios de puta (the whore’s lips – a rather interesting and somewhat self descriptive little flower); and of course countless varieties of colourful and dangerous fungi.

Before long the heavens broke out in another almighty storm. The downpour was almost immediate and fell with relentless anger. Crashing through palms and flooding the trails immediately, we spent the better part of the next 6 hours hiking hastily through ankle deep mud and fast-swelling rivers.

Three hours later my shoulders ached, my hip joints burned, and my feet were raw. There would be no respite from the raging elements and there was no choice but to keep on moving. We had to make it to Sirena before the rivers became impassable. I was utterly miserable. My body was worn out and my shoes kept getting stuck in the thick mud, forcing me to pull them off and on every ten minutes. There was no wildlife or plant viewing, just a direct march to the next station. Five minutes of treacherous walking lasted half an hour in my mind and I had little motivation left to keep me going the next 5 hours.

Nito was fully aware of my discomfort and misery and with a big grin turned and reminded me that Julie, it’s not a rainforest without any rain!

My body collapsed on the hard floor as soon as we arrived at the Sirena station. I didn’t care that there was no mattress or tent. My legs turned stiff immediately and my body was too weak to roll over. It was 4pm and I turned in for the night. A million miles away, and what seemed like an age later, Nito shook me awake and pointed out my tent with a soft foamy mattress and a steaming cup of coffee. I rolled my lead body into the tent and fell into a dead sleep. 

Day 3

The sound of dinosaurs bellowing in the trees around the station at a crisp and eerie 4am was not a welcomed wake up call. Howler monkeys have a unique howling call to mark their territory and show dominance over their’s and other troops – and they insist on doing this at the most inconvenient of times. I rolled my stiff body over and noticed Nito looking far too lively in the small kitchen next to my tent. He has the stamina of an ox, and quite evidently, can survive on the least amount of sleep required to stay alive.

This was our last day. The last push home – another 9 hour hike along the edge of the rainforest, a beautiful strip of wildlife rich jungle that straddles the pacific ocean and its dramatic beaches. I rose with surprising strength and put my damp clothes and shoes back on – all steadily beginning to smell like dirty tennis socks.

We were treated to some amazing wildlife as we walked along the flat trail that weaved in and out of the rainforest and onto the beach. The mesmerizing Scarlet macaws are as common as crows on this specific strip of coastline, and squawked from high up in the Indian almonds that bordered the beach. Their primary colours fluttered and flashed through the bright green foliage, and a sighting of more than 15 in a single tree never managed to dull the senses.

Howler, spider, squirrel, and capuchin monkeys swung from vines and branches and put on a tremendous show for the strange onlookers. The rainforest came alive all around us and everywhere we looked possums, raccoons, agouti’s, bush pigs, frogs, insects, and even a beautiful Baird’s Tapir roamed the trails around us and were seemingly unperturbed by our close presence.

The sun and sand wore out our tired bodies and minds, and the brief ventures into the shady rainforest brought much relief, and a little more motivation to complete the hike. My excitement at reaching Carate ranger station was indescribable. We had finished the hike! I couldn’t quite believe it. I tore off my shoes and socks and lay in the shade, fighting my eyes to stay open and not drift into a deep sleep. What are you doing? A concerned Nito called out. We’re finished, aren’t we? Replied a worried voice. No, we still have 4km’s of beach to walk down.

I almost burst into tears. How could I possibly walk another 4km’s IN THE SAND?

After much comforting and persuasion, Nito eventually got me to pull my shoes back on and follow him along the scorching beach for another hour and a half. The hardest and most painful ninety minutes of my life. My backpack rubbed giant chafe marks into my shoulders and I struggled to pull one leg in front of the other. I was now utterly miserable and wanted nothing more that to collapse in a giant heap and die on that unforgiving, never-ending beach.

John and Nito continued on with heavy feet and hanging heads. I had no choice but to finish this epic experience. Words cannot describe my utter relief at the sight of our finish line. A small shack in the shade of several giant almonds. Bob sold cold cokes and cold beers. Without a single hesitation the three of us ordered an ice cold beer and collapsed onto the floor… 

Speechless, exhausted, brain-dead.

Without a doubt, one of the most amazing experiences of my life.

So many more amazing places were seen and experiences had in Costa Rica, and this unique country will always have a special place in my adventurous heart :)

I am currently in Colombia with my gorgeous sister… So much still to come from this extraordinary country!!

 

The Chickenbus Laws

The thought of arriving in Guatemala City was relatively comforting after two solid days of flying between five airports in four countries. I was whisked off by a shuttle bus to the small colonial town of Antigua, and after 30 minutes of bypassing grungy streets, crumbling buildings, and litter strewn gardens I arrived in the colourful, volcano-ringed gem.

The appeal of Central America with its ruins, volcanoes, jungles, beaches, rich history, and vibrant culture was begging to be explored…

Como se… what?

I arrived speaking no Spanish at all but was fairly confident with my hello’s, goodbye’s, please’s, thank-you’s, and counting to twenty. Apparently Spanish is easy, how bad could it be? The charming town of Antigua was my home for a week while I threw myself into Spanish classes (a crash-course really, just ‘to get me by’ I briefed my teacher). It turned out that ‘getting by’ was a little harder than I had imagined – Regular and Irregular verbs; Male and Female; Seven tenses - I extended my classes for two extra days.

On my last day I had a morning of solid conversation with my teacher. She stressed the importance of pronunciation and said that the same word can have two different meanings according to how it is said. Learn as many verbs as possible she urged. When in doubt just spit out a few verbs and the occasional noun and you’ll eventually get the message across. Spanish words are either male or female she reminded me. El for male, La for female. If there is a mixture of people always use the male form.

Pronunciation. Check.

Verbs. Check.

Sexist Pronouns. Check.

Survival Spanish. Check.

My dear American friend learnt the pronunciation lesson the hard way. In polite conversation she asked cuantos anos tienes? She thought she was asking how old the person was. Años means years. The ñ is an ‘nya’ sound, and not a flat n sound. Anos means something entirely different, and, unbeknown to you will lead to an interesting conversation about how many anuses the person might have.

The Belly Rules the Mind  ~ Spanish Proverb

I lived with a Guatemalan family during my studies. An amazing experience and insight into the life of the average Guatemalan. The food was interesting to say the least. My stomach took a few days to get used to the Guatemalan (I later realised it wasn’t isolated to Guatemala) cuisine. No meal is complete without beans and rice (and not or). Beans and rice; rice and beans; beans, rice, and deep fried chicken; beans, rice, and deep fried potatoes; beans, rice, and deep fried zucchini… you get the point. Very often an egg is thrown in for variety – the third staple – eggs in every shape, size, and form are consumed at any of the three meals, and quite often, at all of the three meals.

The cultural hub and meeting point in any village, town, or city in Central America is the market. It’s an amazing cultural experience to grasp with a strong stomach and a lot of patience. Overweight Señoras chatter loudly as they navigate the narrow passageways carrying baskets of steaming pan on their heads; young Mayan children dress in bright traditional dress and offer shoe polishing for a miniscule fee; piles of tropical fruits and vegetables tower at eye level; and fish, chicken, and pork lie in the warm, stagnant air attracting countless flies while their stench flows through the grimy, wet corridors. On more than one occasion I had to breath through my mouth and hot-foot it through the throngs of happy market-goers whenever the meat section came into sight. The local market sells everything. There are children’s clothes, adult movies, dog food, and piñadas for Africa. And in case you were in short supply there are even stuffed iguanas and armadillos holding empty tins of locally produced beer… a classy statement piece for your entrance hall perhaps?

Eating locally is definitely the best option for budget travelers, and ‘street food’ is a cheap, and most times delicious alternative to eating in restaurants. There is no shortage of choice – burritos, nachos, fajitas, tortillas, enchiladas, quesadillas, empanadas, you name it. They can be found on any street corner but I’ll be damned if I know the difference, just that you can have any filling you want, as long as it’s with rice and beans.

The Chickenbus Laws

Probably the most interesting place to see the Latin culture in action is on the public transport system, in particular the chickenbus – the old American school buses that have been painted in vibrant, eyecatching colours and designs. The chickenbus is a central part of Latin American life and gets you from A to B in the cheapest possible way – even if that means doubling your travel time because of the pick-up’s and drop-off’s that occur every 20 meters or so.

Once you’ve found the bus you want (usually because you’ve heard the conductor screaming its destination from the other end of the town) your bag is thrown onto the roof along with bicycles, blankets, live animals and the occasional person. If you’re lucky it’s tied down with whatever they can find, but you cannot interfere with the process, and if your bag does eventually arrive at the same destination as you, count yourself lucky. You find a spacious seat next to a window and watch as the bus quickly fills up.

The seats (clearly designed for 2) are also clearly designed for children, so when the conductor looks annoyingly in your direction and swats his hand for you to move over in order to fit 3 people on each seat, you do so quickly to avoid an inevitable confrontation.

The buses clearly state that their carrying capacity is for 60 persons seated and 15 persons standing (remembering that they were designed for children). The norm is closer to 180 seated, and 45 standing. Just when you think they cannot possibly fit another person onboard, another 6 people elbow their way through the crowd to a position under someone’s sweaty armpit or against a greasy window.

The competition between bus conductors is fierce and there is no shortage of aggressive marketing. The conductor has an assistant whose primary job it is to find customers. By any means possible. He will shout out the window at each and every person he sees on the roadside, regardless of whether they look like they’re waiting for a bus or not. He will even approach a person who is clearly heading for the bus to León and shout ‘GrannaGrannaGranna’ in their ear in the hope that they will drop their belongings and spontaneously jump on a bus to Granada instead. You’ve got to give them credit for trying.

The bustling activity on a chickenbus journey is an event in itself, and provides a mini view into the complexities of Latin American culture in general. Apart from the intriguing people-watching opportunities, there are a host of other activities all going on at once. Vendors jump on at various points along the journey selling everything from toothpaste and biscuits, to iced coffee and socks. Up and down the crowded aisle, they push and shove and screech at the top of their lungs. Just don’t make eye contact because they WILL manage to sell you something no matter how much you protest.

Passengers casually suck on ice creams and cold drinks, and munch on greasy chicken pieces and unidentifiable delicacies, all adding to the sweet smell of humid sweat and diesel fumes. There is never litter on the bus. As soon as a packet of chips or a cool drink is finished the remnants are discarded out the window, it’s far easier that way – onto the pavement, into someone’s garden, or into a pristine piece of virgin rainforest – without a second thought.

Occasionally people board the bus to sell specific products. After a 15-minute spiel – all in Spanish of course – the vendors pace the aisle looking for victims. I wish I could understand just half of what they said in their spiel - without a doubt it would be a priceless lesson into the art of sales, because no matter how absurd the product – from bath salts to miracle cures promising to treat anything from hair loss to kidney failure - there are always buyers on the bus.

God is everywhere. His name is plastered on buildings, on street signs, on the sides of mountains, and in the chickenbuses. Being deeply Catholic, the Latinos have countless statuettes, banners, and portraits emblazoned with the names of Jesus, Dios, or Maria in their homes and places of work. Dios bendiga este bus on the front of most buses comforts people by knowing that God will look after them on their journey – God has blessed this bus. It’s about time he made another visit. The inside of the buses are considerably less glamorous than their vibrant exteriors. The seats are torn and stained, and the foam stuffing acts as a sponge against passenger’s sweaty thighs. The windows’ once sleek-looking tint job is peeling off to a point that it’s difficult to see through the glass. Even if you manage to get the jammed windows to open it’s probably not a good idea. The strange cultural acceptance of spitting phlegm into public areas is not restricted to roadsides and pavements. Bus windows are also common recipients of the ritual. Believe me, no matter how stuffy the inside of the bus is, it could always get worse – the last thing you want is to get caught with your head out the window when the bus going at a top speed of 40km per hour when the man in front of you decides to expel some deep-seated phlegm out into the glorious sunshine.

The chicken bus is a unique experience. A journey through Central America would be incomplete without a trip on this infamous vessel of life.

A Man's Heart Without Nature Becomes Hard ~ Standing Bear

The humid jungles and rainforests, black volcanic beaches, glassy lakes, and cascading waterfalls are just a few of the spectacular natural wonders to explore in this part of Central America. So different to anywhere I’ve been in Africa, the air is almost dripping with moisture, luscious tropical fruits grow like weeds, and the vegetation is a luminous blanket over the varying landscapes.

I roasted marshmallows over hot lava on my first volcano hike – a tough one to beat. The countries I have visited so far have, without a doubt, had some of the most exhilarating and heart-pumping outdoor activities I’ve experienced. On my second and hardest volcano hike – the grueling Volcan San Pedro in Guatemala - my guide, Fernando, was completely perplexed that I was from Africa. How did you get there? And are there any other blancas there? I was delighted by his interest and the questions kept coming, but with each little step I took up the 45 degree angled, 6 hour hike, I felt my legs die a little more inside, I could hardly breath the thin air, let alone respond to his enthusiastic questions with educated answers.

We reached the summit - 3020m - and were treated to the most arresting views of Lake Atitlan and the surrounding villages below. Definitely worth the effort, and a firm warning sign to get fit before the impending Inca Trail!

Snorkeling off Honduras’ Roatan Island was a surreal experience. My weightless body lay suspended above a 50m drop-off which descended in layers from dull blue to deeper, darker nothingness - a place where sunlight is forbidden and only the brave care to explore. Something about seeing the reef to my left and a sheer drop with no end below me felt like what I can only imagine flying or being on the moon would feel. The reef fish swam two meters below the surface and darted in and out of colourful swollen corals and waving sea fans. Yellow trumpet fish, Fairy basslets, Squirrelfish, Foureye butterflyfish and many more mesmerizing colours and patterns brought the sea to life.

Volcano boarding down Cerro Negro, Nicaragua, was an experience that will not be easily forgotten. A short hike up the black volcano gave us magnificent views of the revolutionary town of León and the surrounding area, right the way to the Pacific. The active volcano breathed warm sulfur from deep within her belly, but allowed us one short ride down her steep gravelly back. Dressed in bright green jumpsuits and protective goggles we raced down the volcano on bobsleigh-type boards. An exhilarating ride with speeds so fast it was impossible to stop once you’d started. By the time I reached the bottom my mouth, ears, and hair were filled with gravel, and my socks and underwear also managed to get their fair share. A unique and unforgettable experience indeed. The boarding and the extraction of gravel.

Surfing, as I have come to learn, is much more than just a sport. It’s an immensely appealing lifestyle of sun-kissed tans, crystal clear seas, and the laidback attitude that comes so naturally when one has a surfboard under their arm. The coastal towns of Guatemala and Nicaragua attract swarms of international surfers and beach bums who come in search of the next wave. San Juan del Sur on Nicaragua’s Pacific coast is the epitome of the little surfer town. The streets are filled with shirtless men donning salty blonde locks and beer-branded vests; while perfectly tanned girls strut the shortest shorts and brightly coloured wayfarers.

My first lesson was with a group of friends and a crazy Brazilian instructor. Alfredo has been surfing for 37 years and claims he’s 44 years of age, however, the wear and tear from the salt and sun puts him at at least 64 years young. A bubbly and patient teacher who explained the art of surfing in a clear and concise way. Puush yur butt outt, bind yur nees, and luuk forrrward al ways. We were now on the water and anxiously awaiting our turn to be thrust infront of an unforgiving pacific wave, about to find out the outcome. Paddil chica paddil, paddil I stood up on my first wave and, unbelievably, almost every wave after that too. What an amazing feeling! Thut was so guud chica! Pure hard work, Pure exhilaration, Pure freedom. My new love affair.

Watch this space for the next installment – La Pura Vida: Costa Rica!

I love this quote:

To live is a rare thing; most people simply exist

Oscar Wilde