North and South America are connected by a thin trunk of land which was severed by the Panama Canal, The Columbians make cocaine, and Nicaraguans help move it North. Lore has it that late arriving smugglers have been seen scurrying along the top of the massive canal locks at early dawn, hurrying to cross before daylight when Canal-guard bribes are higher. Costa Rica is located in between trying to stay out of it. A road runs through it and everyone is by the side of this road waiting for visitors to stop in and eat ‘Casado’ a local dish of rice, beans, chicken, vegetables and half a fried banana. It makes you wonder whether you’re sharing with someone else or whether yours is the half was still salvageable if fried.
We flew into Juan Santamaria International Airport in San Jose, rented a car and stretched it to its limits with the six of us and our luggage. Yeela who was fresh out of the army volunteered to cram into the back seat with the luggage, thinking nothing of it. Tintin, who over the course of his life, had come to know much higher standards of living bemoaned his pitiful condition as he sprawled over Osmo and Tal rather than cram between them in the middle seat.We drove to Arenal-La Fortuna, getting accustomed to the road and car conditions. Tal spent a lot of time looking out the window at the views, deep in thoughts about the future. Osmo spent a lot of time looking at Tintin deep in thoughts about the past. I spent my time between the view and searching for a gas station. Ima spent her time between the view and the kids.
Tintin’s troubles came to an end when we checked into hotel Los Lagos, located on the northern slopes of the famous Arenal Volcano. In simplified terms, this volcano is a geological cigarette which has all but burned itself out. Naturally the last geological seconds of a volcanic can span a few years so the mountain is still spewing a steady plume of smoke, but not much more. The locals tell tourists about ‘last weeks’ lava flow, knowing that most tourists stay for only a day or two, so their fairy tale is safe. And who knows, back in 1968 the volcano fried the valley. It could have ended our lifetime in our lifetime, but we came thirty-seven years too late. Tintin cared for the volcano as much as the volcano cared for him. His interest focused on the two enormous rooms which we checked into with all the amenities he had grown accustomed to since he first stepped onto this earth, including but not limited to – a shower, a pool, a steak-house, a TV, air conditioning and a large double bed. We could see the energy flow back into the child as he processed his return to civilization.
We spent the next two days driving around the volcano. Our first destination was the national park which was somewhere on the south slope of the mountain. Like many other attractions in Costa Rica, we found it by turning where the sign wasn’t. We turned off to an anonymous dirt road, pulled over. There was a booth on the other side of the road. We assumed the uniformed man in the booth was one of Costa Rica’s first responders and decided to get his unbiased opinion as to our whereabouts. The lawman was lawlessly protecting himself from nature by killing the wasps in his shack with the daily newspaper. I walked up to the friendly officer with Osmo as my interpreter, should my Spanish run out while there was still information on the table. The lawman gingerly lowered the rolled up newspaper to the pavement. There was a wasp on the tip of the paper and a collection of wasp carcasses on the road. The policeman removed the wasp from the paper with the tip of his shoe and then gently stepped on it and pushed it to the pile of its deceased companions. ‘I guess he’s trying to make it look as if the wasps were run over’ I thought to myself. ‘Buenos Dias’ I greeted the murderer. He smiled back at me going about his gruesome business, ”Donde esta el-parque nacional?’ The lawman pointed the paper bludgeon up the dirt road which we were on. ‘Gracias’ I thanked him from the bottom of my Spanish.
The national park turned out to be a vista point with a ticketing booth. We got even by paying for five people rather than the six that we were. We took a few pictures with our backs to the volcano, then we turned around and took a few pictures with our backs to Lake Arenal. I challenged the elements by drinking from a water tap not much of a risk given that the water in Costa Rica is safe to drink. Then we turned one more time and went back to the car and drove out of the playground.
Where there are volcanoes there are hot springs. The Arenal geothermal heater warms up an entire river which the locals have cleverly cordoned off into two resorts where you are welcome to soak yourself down hundreds of yards of ascending pools filled with hot water, overflowing from one to the next. One resort – Tabacon – is world famous and is priced accordingly. But the locals are wise. They know that rivers run downhill. Hence, a few hundred yards down the road there is another set of hot pools. Having forgotten its name, we referred to it as the ‘סחנה’. ‘I can’t wait to get in the water’ Imma said. This was somewhat hard to reconcile with her cat-like loathing of water. But in all fairness, Imma welcomed water when it was there to please, rather than entice you to exercise. Ima found her calling on a rock ledge under a hot waterfall. Osmo and Tintin found a local spout which was spewing cooler water into a side pool and took to taking turns at trying to cork it with their hands. I knew that both Ima and they could go on for hours; however, I did have some concerns regarding how long one could remain in the warm water without cooking themselves silly. We took a dry break to eat some real cooking and then came back for more. Night fell. It started to rain. The sight of the family bobbing in a river, in a dark, rainy night was counter to everything a Jewish mother would ever wish upon her young, but an endless supply of hot water changes one’s priorities.
From Arenal, we drove to Hotel La Finca Que Ama in Turrubares. On the way, we passed through Palmares, Atenas, San Mateo and Orotina. Imma repeatedly stopped to ask locals where the crocodiles were. None of them knew what she was talking about because there are no crocodiles along the road from Arenal to Turrubares. Turrubares is the closest landmark to Tura-Ba-Re national part where everyone takes ‘canopy tour’. A ‘canopy tour’ is designed to let you view the forest from above, dangling from harnesses attached to pulleys that ride on cables stretched between the treetops.. The cables are anywhere from two hundred yards to over three-quarters of a mile long. There are seven or eight such cable sections. We drifted above the trees safe from the venomous forms of life crawling on the forest floor or up its tree trunks. We were all impressed by the attention our guides had for safety details. We had double attachments to harnesses at all times. If anyone of us fell from the cable it could really hurt the tourist season. We all returned to the ground safely. ‘Do you want to ride the Superman?’ Osmo asked. ‘Of course’ I lied immediately. The ‘Superman’ is a mile long cable across the gorge of a crocodile-infested river. The turkey vultures (called so because they look like turkeys but are vultures) in the sky improve the ‘Jurassic’ aura of the setting. Not only had we found Imma’s crocodiles, we would tightrope over them. I felt like a condemned man climbing to the gallows as I ascended to the tower where the cable was attached. The tower sits on the edge of a cliff just to make sure that the cable is high enough. I wondered when they last checked the cables for fraying, trying not to dwell on negatives. The first two seconds off the tower are quite terrifying to the non-suicidal, but then you suck it up and settle into a nice flight down the cable, traveling at fifty miles an hour, face down, just like ‘Superman’. The ride lasted a little more than a minute, depending on weight, friction, and air resistance. Consequentially Tintin had the longest ride. Hurtling at that speed you have plenty of time to ponder how the hell you stop at the other end if the cable kept pointing down. All in all it was my most significant test of nerve in the past decade. The boys being veterans of drop zones, magic mountains and bone-crushing-hang-by-your-feet roller coaster rides were moderately thrilled. While we were crossing over the jungle like human bullets, vultures, crocodiles and all, Imma and the girls had no choice but to have another cup of coffee at the bar. Yes, they definitely know how to accommodate everyone’s needs in Costa Rica.
It was time to balance four days of braving volcanoes and jungles with the serenity of a beachside resort so off we went to Manuel Antonio-Quepos. On our way, about fifteen minutes after passing Orotina, we found the crocodiles where they were supposed to be – under the ‘Crocodile Bridge’. Most of the bridges in Costa Rica look and sound like they were taken from the movie set of ‘Lord of the Rings’. They moan when your car mounts them, they tremble and sway when you drive over them, and the chains that hold them at both ends creek and strain to keep the roadway attached to the decaying concrete anchors on the river banks. Funny how much of our well being in Costa Rica was determined by cables and chains. ‘Crocodile Bridge’ is somewhat better built than most other bridges we crossed except for random gaps in its railing which I guess they put there just for giggles. If you are careful where you don’t lean you should be fine, otherwise you join the crocodiles for what is sure to be a wonderful tourist fable for years to come. Come to think of it, someone might have removed the railing on purpose. You cannot explain a fall from a canopy cable, but people dropping from bridges is accepted worldwide as a tragic-yet-prevalent phenomenon which people blame of the ‘jumper’
At the foot of the bridge, we saw a dozen crocodiles doing what crocodiles do best – absolutely nothing. What can you expect from an animal whose metabolism so slow it can go for months without food? Tourists tend to add more meaning to the crocodiles doing nothing so as not have their trips be for naught. If the crocodiles are not doing anything visible why not focus on their insides? ‘They are digesting’… ‘Look at how the little one is keeping its distance from that huge croc.’ The truth is that the little one kept its distance a long time in the past when both crocodiles came to this spot to do nothing. Since then nothing has changed so the distance will remain kept unless both crocodiles are on different tectonic plates which happen to be sliding past each other. The crocodile attraction had us all moderately thrilled. We got back to the car which the alleged thieving locals contrary to Imma’s warnings – did not break into and drove on.
Two hours and lunch later we got to Hotel ‘Costa Verde’ which overlooks the jungle that covers the beaches of Manuel Antonio National Park. The hotel rooms are set amongst the treetops as are the pool decks. We sat and watched the colorful blooms of dozens of types of trees and shrubs, and waited for the monkeys to come and give their daily auditions. I was reading ‘The Drunken Forrest’ about the adventures of Gerald Darrell in the ‘Pantanal’ (the massive inland floodplain that spans wide areas of Brasil, Uruguay, and Argentina). While the floodplain was four thousand miles further south, I was sufficiently deep into the jungle with my face to the sea, to relate to chasing after Anacondas in tepid waters of mosquito-infested swamps. Osmo and Tintin also sensed the proximity of nature and compensated with frequent visits to the bar. Once they had their drinks in hand they waded back into the pool – a civil version of the ‘Pantanal’ I was reading about. ‘It’s ok Bushy, we took the ‘virgin’ (alcohol-free) Pina Colada they comforted me as if I would have known the difference.
The next day we took the main path into Manual Antonio National Park, staying close to groups with guides so we could get to see the real attractions without having to pay for a guide of our own. We had no choice when it came to not paying for a guide because Imma had decided based on ‘very reliable’ rumors that all Costa Rican guides were thieves (very much like the ones on Crocodile Bridge) that wish nothing but evil upon their followers. This being the case one should only follow others that have decided to follow a guide not bound by the need to receive guidance services in return for funds paid. At some point, I wanted to wander from the main path into the jungle but three yards down the new path a small warning sign said ‘if the snakes don’t get you then the spiders will’. We stayed with the tour guide. We found a path without warning signs and wandered through the jungle to the parking lot. I have to admit that walking with sandals through the habitat of killer-everything keeps you on your toes, and I mean everything. They even have little colorful frogs which could fit snuggly into a matchbox (the small kind) which have such toxic secretions on their skins that it can kill you if you so much as touch them. Of course, it’s not the little frog’s fault. Since bigger frogs tend to eat smaller frogs the whole idea is to have whatever attempts to swallow the little reptile spit it out immediately and die shortly thereafter so it does not make the same mistake twice. It is one of nature’s clever ways of cleaning up after its own mistakes.
As we began the two-day journey back Imma was still determined to prove that the Costa Ricans wished upon us nothing but evil. She tried attracting a policeman to give us a citation by hanging her pants to dry over the front windshield. We had just returned from an ATV ride with a guide that was ‘out to kill us by drowning in mud’ – his attempt foiled by Imma who was the only one to drive her ATV straight through the killer mud without being sucked in. With one survivor to tell the story the guide had no choice but to bring us all back. At the end of the course, we washed our clothes in the river that flowed alongside the ATV station, which raised the question of how we would dry them. The solution was to hang them from the car windows rolled up and trapping the ends of the cloth between the glass and the window frame. Obviously, the first policeman that saw the car was concerned that the driver had an obstructed view and waved us down to the roadside. ‘I’ll handle this’ Imma told me, convinced that all police officers in Costa Rica bode nothing but evil. I rolled down the window to greet the puzzled officer. Imma, sitting in her knickers, immediately took over the conversation, and in fluent Spanish (which she staunchly claimed not to speak) praised the officer on behalf of all his countrymen for their hospitality and the joyful time we were having in their country. The officer, somewhat embarrassed by the unintentional peep show he had stumbled upon, smiled broadly and waved us on. It was too easy. Imma felt cheated.
With time running out Ima found one more glorious opportunity to expose the locals’ true face. It happened in the late afternoon hours when we stopped in Puriscal for a disappointing visit to the local tobacco factory. Imma slyly asked me to watch over her backpack as she went to inquire about the visiting hours, which turned out to be all but over. We quickly walked through a dimly lit long room with a concrete floor, and tables with benches aligned in two columns forming what looked like a shabby classroom for adults, with tobacco leaves instead of books on the tables. A few cigars gathered in bins at the edge of the tables alluded to the purpose of the facility. Since the workers had already gone home there was not much more to see. We walked out and drove away, Imma shrewdly not asking a word about the backpack she had asked me to watch. Twenty minutes out of Puriscal Imma looked down to the floor where her backpack had spent the past week and asked ‘where is my backpack?’ ‘In Puriscal’ I answered realizing that I had left it lying on top of the spare tire attached to the rear of the car. It could not have possibly stayed in place for more than a few yards after we started driving away from the tobacco factory. ‘I had everything in that bag, credit cards, money, camera, everything’ Ima moaned. ‘There is no way in the world we’ll ever find it in this country!’ Imma exclaimed as I turned the car around to prove Imma right.
As long as the day’s drive had been, the kids’ survival skills told them that this was not the time to complain about having to go back the way we came, in spite of the seeming futility of the ride. When we got back to the tobacco factory it was closed, the unpaved parking lot was empty, not a sign of the backpack and no tracks in the dirt to follow. Imma stepped down from the car to talk to the merchants in the small shops across the street from the factory: ‘Perdi un Mochilla Azul’ (I lost a blue back pack) she explained in perfect Spanish (which she does not speak). The first two merchants had no idea what she was talking about, but the third went into his shop and returned with the backpack. Imma was devastated. This was no way to prey on tourists. In her desperation, Imma reached for the wallet which was in the backpack hoping to find it empty no such luck. At this point, Ima had to deal with the evidence at face value. Checking the contents of her wallet in front of one of the most honest men she had met since we moved to the western hemisphere was a very rude thing to do, so Imma offered to pay the man. He refused to receive anything other than Imma’s gratitude. As we drove out of Puriscal for the second time, Imma started a heated debate how she could repay the man for his kindness. Yeela and Tal were all for putting it behind us ‘There’s nothing you can do Imma. He sealed his fate once he returned the backpack.’ Osmo and Tintin agreed immediately understanding that it would spare them the third trip to Puriscal in the same lifetime.
We spent the last day at the La Paz Waterfalls. It was pouring that day. It also was the only day which we did not take our ponchos with us. We bought ponchos and got just as wet anyway. The La-Paz waterfalls are perhaps the ultimate form of wrapping up nature in Tourist traps. On the way to the waterfalls which are located half a mile from the park’s entrance, there are butterfly gardens, hummingbird enclosures, restaurants and souvenir shops. The waterfalls are a backdrop to everything else. Indeed I must confess that the bio-mechanics of a hummingbird are more fascinating than a waterfall. Did you know that that tiny animal’s heart beats five hundred to twelve hundred times a minute? Its wings beat sixty times a second and it visits thousands of flowers a day? Can you imagine what a crocodile with a Hummingbird’s metabolism would be doing under the bridge?
We flew back the next day.