Comma Dot Comma

We borrowed a boogie board from the B and B and drove a few kilometers south to a more pristine curve of beach called Carillo. Red crabs skittered back into their holes as we passed in search of the perfect hang-out spot. Then we walked into waist-deep water and waited for good waves. They came in sets of three or four, and if I caught the break of the first one, I could sometimes ride them all the way into shore and well up the beach. I want to learn to surf sometime but today was not the day– I had an appointment with destiny: my first time riding a horse. We thought our guides were going to take us along the beach, but we only spent a little time on the sand before switchbacking up a rural hill with a flat top and great views of the water and the surrounding countryside. I puckered up biting a tiny green fruit (note to self: “acio” means bitter) that the guide gave me. He laughed at my expression and claimed it was great with tequila. At least, I think that’s what he said. We eached matched our horse– I was dressed head to toe in dark brown, and Dr. G was 100% khaki. His prone-to-stopping horse threw a shoe on a climb up the hill. On the way back, the animals got more peppy. Mine in particular would break into a canter whenever another horse threatened to take his lead. I would bounce precariously in the saddle and keep one hand on my head to secure my straw hat. Alas, it blew off and the guide scrambled after it for me.

For lunch we went in search of another first: ceviche, which is chopped raw fish soaked in something acidic like vinegar or lemon juice, which results in a sort of cold cooking. We were served cold glass bowls full at a little cevicheria near the water, and added fresh hot salsa from a tupperware, cutting the heat with bites of saltine crackers. The fish was cool, firm, and flavorful and the fresh onions andd peppers added a nice zing. Another successful food experiment! After a nap, we headed back to Carillo for a long walk hunting for shells and spying on a blue kingfisher in a tree before catching some more waves. It was raining again, so we would lift our faces out of the saltwater to get washed by rainwater. There was no lightning, but the wind whipped up some intimidating waves for us to try. For supper, we walked behind a bamboo storefront on the main strip in Samara to find a nice open-air patio restaurant, lit by candles. Our comida tipico had, in addition to the usual meat and cabbage, fried eggs, big blocks of cheese and potato-beet salad. To our regret we had no room for dessert.

We woke at 3 am (or rather, I woke, and Dr. G simply neglected to sleep) for glimpse of the Perseids. We spread an old blanket at an archeological site northeast of the city lights and lit Costa Rican vanilla-flavored cigars. Then we leaned back below the indian ruins to watch the meteors burn. It was a cool ninety degrees, with a breeze.

We decided to go back to the lava field and do a little exploring on our own, without the huge groups or the droning guide. We found a little-used side trail diving back into the forest in the direction of the lake and decided to take it. It was nice to be away from other humans. A few hundred meters in, a group of javelinas crossed the path in front of us. Some howler monkeys seemed to be following us, shouting from the tall trees on either side of the trail. Eventually it petered out (alas, no lake) and we turned back. At the junction, the trees were shaking wildly– some white-faced capuchin monkeys were jumping from tree to tree in search of fruit. Cool!

We had four hours of driving ahead of us, along the lake and westward across the peninsula to the beach at Samara. We stopped for lunch in a small town along the way, where I ate a grilled sandwich with shredded barbecue chicken, thick slices of tomato, and a spicy sauce. Dr. G ate tipica with stew. It always feels so great when you have little idea what you are ordering and you get something delicious. Our trip was uneventful, and we arrived at Entre Dos Aguas in Samara in late afternoon as the rain began to dump again. We waited it out in the common area, swinging in hammocks and sipping the country’s beer, Imperial. These cheap beers are all the same but it seems necessary to drink the national beer of the country you are in. The rustic wood furniture in our room radiated mustiness that the fan could not dispel and all the towels and sheets felt damp, even though they were artfully folded into flowers and fans. There were no other rooms, but the fresh-from-New-York-City young owners promised us a better room the next day. We wandered down to the beach in our inadequate raincoats and surveyed a lovely yet trash-littered white sand beach before eating at the New Yorkers’ recommended restaurant, where my grilled tilapia came smothered in a rich fresh avocado sauce with chunks of sweet pepper, onion, and avocado in it. Anything with fresh avocado wins points in my book.

Predawn. We had neither watches nor cell phones (our usual method of telling time) so I was appointed timekeeper, judging by the light and activity when we should get up. This grave responsibility meant I slept lightly, jolting awake every few hours to make sure it was not yet morning. I had just drifted off after one such jolt when an otherworldly groan (fast forward to the 42 second mark) echoed through the room. It was coming from outside. It repeated, and repeated again. My foggy brain listed the possibilities. Jaguars. Volcano exploding. Howler monkeys. Some fainter answering groans came from across the gorge– choice C must be the right one. I thought I saw a shadowy figure moving in the biggest tree but was too befuddled to focus. A few hours later, we devoured our complimentary breakfast in the restaurant– pancakes, eggs, sausage, fried plaintains, gallo (beans and rice), papaya juice, coffee, and lined up with other guests for a guided hike through the grounds and to a waterfall. Our guide, Eduardo, set up his scope so we could peer at the comically groucy faces of the howler monkeys groaning in the trees. He set it up again near a grassy field so we could watch the parakeets and cherry headed parrots swooping from tree to tree. A wild turkey dropped by just as the clouds broke, giving us our first view of blue-grey Arenal. Puffs of steam and ash streamed from its top and we could see puffs of dust as hot rocks rolled off the rim. It was hard to know where to look, there were so many interesting things happening at once. At the waterfall, we got drenched in mist and I stuck my sweaty head in the pool though our guide had sternly admonished us that we had no time for swimming. He pointed out medicinal plants and plucked citronella berries for us to break open and rub on our skin as mosquito repellent. We got towed back to the lodge in a painted cart pulled by a tractor.

The lodge had a lovely tile pool and clover-leaf shaped jacuzzi. After our hike, we swam a bit and sat in the jacuzzi to watch the volcano before heading into town. In La Fortuna, I discovered mango con leche– a mango fruit smoothie. From that moment forward I ordered smoothies at every opportunity. They only cost a dollar and were sometimes made with juice, and other times with fresh fruit. Delicious. Dr. G. discovered comida tipica– stir-fried rice and beans, grilled meat or stew, and fresh vegetables, which he ordered every chance he got henceforth. I think Costa Rica produces most of its own food, and nearly everything we ate– fruits, vegetables, fish, meats, cheeses– tasted fresh. After exploring the park and the tourist shops, we headed back to the lodge for a sunset hike in the national park across a recent lava field. It was the same guide, and this time he pointed out toucans and buzzards in the ancient trees, and showed us how to identify guava trees to pluck our own fruit. As we waited on the bare volcanic rock for the light to dim, we looked out over Arenal Lake at the base of the mountain. The clouds were not allowing good volcano views, but from this close we could hear the groans from its core and the crashing and splintering of hot boulders being pushed out of the cone. When the clouds moved, we could see glowing red sparks as the boulders rolled down.

We were so full from breakfast and lunch that we decided to skip dinner and take advantage of the low ($40 a person, but still better than $80) night rates at the Tabacon Hot Springs. The resort had redirected a steaming hot river (41 degrees C) into a collection of interconnected pools and waterfalls, some natural and some paved. They were connected by trails snaking through mangrove-like trees. At the entrance, they had a hot-water waterslide into a pool below, where you could then swim up to a bar to order the drink of your choice. Our favorite section was one of the waterfalls, about forty feed wide, that we could sidle behind and then stick various body parts through the pounding water. Two hours there was enough for us. We were delighted but sapped of strength, parched and exhausted. Time for bed, yet on our way back we noticed the now-clear volcano putting on quite a show. We had to stop and watch awhile.

We shook hands with the rental agent. “All right!” he said. “Let’s go take a look at your car.” As we moved from the desk to the door, the bright gray skies collapsed into thick darkness, dousing the parking lot with dense raindrops the size of fava beans. “Maybe not,” said the agent. He directed an underling to bring the car into the garage. An inspection, some cautions against fraudulent tire-changers, and we were off, cut loose to roam the narrow Costa Rican roads in a tiny yellow Suzuki. Our first destination was Arenal Observatory Lodge, a former volcanlogist outpost below the volcano,now converted to tourist accomodations.

To get there, we had to thread through green mountains and banana plantations for hours. In the rain, the tropical flowers and plants shimmered in well-landscaped yards. For a long time we lost the trail of pictographs with arrows we had relied on like Hansel’s breadcrumbs. Where the heck were we? The roads were alike and unlabeled, and we had made several turns. We went on awhile longer, finally reassured by the snarl of stalled traffic we encountered over a rise. No one was hurt. We shook our heads pityingly as we inched past an abashed truck driver whose trailer had tipped into the ditch. By the time we reached the town closest to the volcano, the sun had set and the heavy clouds created a starless darkness. We spotted a sign for the lodge, indicating a turn onto a dirt road. “<– 9 kilometers,” it said.

The insects were loud enough to overcome the rain and the rolled up car windows with their song, and trees pressed in on both sides as we drove deeper and deeper into the forest. This place was really, truly, in the jungle! We saw an animal like a racoon with round ears. Near the end of the road, a rippling sheet of water flared up in the headlights– we had to ford a shallow river. How cool was that. At last we reached the lodge, lights glowing yellow from the windows. Our room had cool tile, a ceiling fan, and a balcony overlooking a deep forested gorge. It was just steps away from a wide deck where we could sit bird watching in the day and volcano watching at night, but we were tired. We ate steak in the overpriced restaurant and then went to sleep.

We just got back from a six-day trip to lovely Costa Rica, and, as we shuffled through the lines at the airport, kept wishing we had another 15 days. We’ve never been to Hawaii but Costa Rica seems like it could be considered a poor man’s Hawaii. It’s got the beaches, the reefs, the forests, the volcanoes, the mountains, and the canyons. I’d recommend a visit there to anyone who loves the outdoors. A more lyrical post on our adventures later. For now, some “glad I did/wish I’d done differently” moments to help others who may be planning a trip.

1. Don’t rely on a printed tour book. The tourist industry is growing so quickly in Costa Rica that our 2005 edition was already out of date. Hotels had changed ownership or gone downhill, restaurants had disappeared, and some of the fees were wildly inaccurate. Start with the book to choose the areas you want to visit, and then use internet forums and travel sites to get up-to-date recommendations.

2. Budget the exit tax into your travel plans. At the airport, we had to pay $52 in order to exit the country.

3. If you don’t have a lot of time, rent a 4×4 and drive yourself. Despite the narrow,winding, hilly roads, we were glad to have the additional time and freedom a car provided. We calculated what the expense would have been if we relied on buses, shuttles, and taxis for six days, and the car cost came out slightly lower.

4. Be careful with your credit card. Although we paid for our trip with traveler’s checks and cash, we had to reserve all of our hotel rooms ahead of time with our credit card information. Someone used it to order $700 worth of goods online. Fortunately, our credit card company didn’t authorize the purchases and canceled the card. Next time, we will use a separate, low-limit credit card to reserve rooms and reduce risk.

5. If you stay in touristy areas, you can pay for everything in dollars and get away with not knowing Spanish. Of course, this convenience comes at tourist prices.

6. Leave the restaurants behind sometimes to eat yummy gallo (stir fried beans and rice) at a busy soda (lunch counter) frequented by locals. Also, order the fresh fruit or juice smoothies, available everywhere for a dollar or two.

7. Use the in-room safes. All the places we stayed had lock boxes, and we figured they were there for good reason. All of our valuables stayed safe and sound, and it felt excellent not to have to traipse around with our entire trip budget in our pockets.

8. Enjoy the origami. Most places, we were greeted with towels, sheets, napkins, and even toilet paper folded into fanciful shapes like swans and flowers. A treat!

9. Bring a compass or good sense of direction. Though streets and highways are numbered on maps, they are not named or numbered in real life. We never got really lost (it’s a small country), but we did have to do a lot of guesswork.

Let’s say there’s a small town somewhere in the Midwest, with a parade of homemade floats and the reigning princess of the region, the lovely and kind Miss Okra. All the townspeople line up along the route to see her pass by on her okra throne, fashioned in just seven hours by her three brothers, who used a nail gun, a chicken wire and plywood frame, and seventeen hundred and nine fresh okras.

Miss Okra loves to throw out candy to the crowd as she passes by. She has buckets and buckets of it at her feet, more than enough for everyone, and she waves with one hand and tosses with the other. People love to catch the candy, though some get more than others, based on where they are sitting or how good their hand-eye coordination is or how large a person is in front of them or if they happen to be sitting in a pause between throws. I myself catch a milky way dark, my favorite kind, and I feel a rush of excitement and gratitude. I doubt that Miss Okra picked out that flavor just for me and aimed it directly my way, but that doesn’t diminish my pleasure one bit.

Some of the people by the road have ten pieces, and others have none. Though some of us are disappointed, none of us feels that Miss Okra, in her lovely green dress and ceramic okra-shaped earrings, was unfair. She was giving steadily all down the block. It is up to us to share our own bounty with the little ones and to use our authority to influence those who have, by luck, ability, wiles, passion, or force, acquired more than they need and are reluctant to share it.

It’s a different story when Miss Okra descends from her now slightly squished and oozy chair to personally choose candy for each member of the crowd. For some people she grinds the candy under her heel first; others she refuses altogether, and even takes their water bottles away. Still others find their open palms heaped with candies as she dumps scoop after scoop into them. What kind of an Okra princess is this? She is passing out just as much candy as before, and the distribution is about the same, but now the ordinary townspeople who had thought of her as kind find they don’t much like her, nor her fancy earrings, nor her way of doing things. People down the route who catch wind of what is happening get up and leave, candy or no candy; they want no part in it.

Miss Okra’s handlers leap out of the backs of police cars and surround her. The handlers are dressed as giant okras. They publicly apologize for having engineered this stunt. Miss Okra climbs back up on the float and beams at the crowd, foil candy wrappers glistening in her gloved hand. The ordinary townspeople do the wave.