Crossing Costa Rica - From the Caribbean to the Pacific

 

Our three-week journey took us from San Jose, Costa Rica’s capital city to the small village of Cahuita on the Caribbean coast. From there, we headed back inland to the mountain towns of Siquirres, La Fortuna, Santa Elena, and Monteverde. Our trip concluded with a week’s stay in Samara on the Pacific coast.

San Jose

While our hotel was a very nice locally owned place with very friendly proprietors, it was their words of warning printed on cards in our room that made us do a double-take. One warned us of bringing “visitors” to our room. Doing so would result in an extra charge regardless of the consequences. “It is common,” the card read, that “prostitutes will steal your wallet and valuables.” It went on to say that the police will likely not be bothered to do anything about it.

And, speaking of police, another card warned not to immediately pay the police officer if pulled over while driving. “Normally,” this other card read, “they will simply give you a warning for the traffic violation you supposedly made.” “If they insist on taking you to the nearest station,” the card continued, “then you pay them.” Hmm. In such circumstances, I would probably still be put in jail because the small amount of my bribe would be deemed offensive.

So, you can see why San Jose is not highly touted as the place to be when in Costa Rica. I am sure there is some redeeming value of spending time here but there is so much more to see and do elsewhere in this country. So, like most visitors, we only spent our initial night here after arriving at the international airport before heading out to other parts of this beautiful country the following day. 

Cahuita

Strange animals lurked about early in the morning, walking by our cottage while we sat on our deck drinking coffee. Sounds from the treetops were mysterious, both because of their unusual calling but because we could not see who or what was doing the callings.

As the daylight grew, the heat and humidity followed. We would have to get used to always being sticky and sweaty. But we were loving it for it was such a change from the cold and wind from up north back home.

The dusty, pothole-ridden gravel road in front of our cottage took us past various beaches on the way into town. There is Playa Negra (black beach), with richly colored dark sands originating from some past volcanic activity, and there is Playa Blanca (white beach), with finely grained sands more typical of what one envisions when the term “beach” comes to mind.

When you think “The Caribbean,” you think of calm waters, placid seas, and gentle waves. Not so. At least not so here at this mid-winter time of year. Instead, the seas were rough and angry. Large waves crashed into the shoreline from all angles. Frequent signs warned of dangerous rip currents. Salt spry hung in the air along the shore, sometimes also extending far inland. Beaches were littered with driftwood and other flotsam and jetsam generated and conjured up from the ocean’s swells. There were no seashells or other natural collectables as you would normally expect since they are all pulverized by the incessant wave action.

We were also disappointed to learn that such conditions had snorkeling outfitters cancelling all their trips. The turbulence of the water resulting in unsafe conditions and too much suspended sand and debris all made for terrible snorkeling conditions.

So, what to do? We relaxed. And when not relaxing, we walked up and down the beaches. We found ways to embrace and blend into this coast’s Afro-Caribbean vibe with its laid-back, easy-going pace full of friendly locals. This is a quiet, back-water part of Costa Rica. No fancy resort hotels and swim-up bars here. Everything is raw, un-commercialized, and original – the real deal.

We frequently visited the national park located immediately adjacent to the town’s southern boundary. At its entrance, you are immediately confronted by guides encouraging us to hire them. “We can help you see the wildlife,” they would say. 

We considered their offer but instead struck out on our own. We were never disappointed. as we walked south along the beach trail. Capuchin monkeys, sloths, basilisk lizards, agouti, and racoons were frequently sighted. Sightings fell off as the heat of the day grew. We laid on the white sand beach in the shade of mangrove trees. The beach here was not very wide. Only a thin strip of sand separated the ocean’s water from the thick deep jungle.

On one of our longer days on the trail, we were careless with our lunch fixings when we stopped for lunch at Punta Cahuita, the trail’s halfway point the park. We briefly set aside our brand-new bag of ruffle potato chips (with zesty barbeque flavoring, mind you) when making our sandwiches. A sneaky racoon stealthily approached from behind, grabbed the bag, and was quickly up in the trees where he parked himself to have at it. Either he lost his grip or he didn’t prefer the taste, for soon the bag dropped at our feet, all tore open and messy. Needless to say, we didn’t try to salvage what was left.

After six or seven miles, we reached the trail’s southern terminus. There, we met an Italian expat who had set up a thriving little restaurant and refreshment stand. We smiled as we walked past toward the main road and our walk back to town. He kindly stopped us, asking where we were from and then shared with us why he left Italy.

He said in his Italian/Spanish-accented English that Italy “has turned to complete shit. It used to be one of the nicest European countries, but no more. Shit!” After his tirade he said that we should take one of his taxis back to town and not wait for the bus. “Same price, either way!  You don’t have to wait for the bus. We can take you right now.”

“We are planning to walk back via the highway and not take the bus,” we told him. “The guidebook says many people do it.”

“No, no, NO!” he said emphatically. “There is a lot of traffic. It’s too dangerous and too hot.” It was indeed hot and we had just finished walking seven miles through the jungle. “And,” he continued, “whoever wrote that guidebook or told you it was okay to walk along the highway is an asshole. A complete asshole!”

Convinced by this man’s charming way about him, we joined other weary hikers and piled into the taxi for the ride back to town. The “taxi” (more like a mini-van of sorts) had torn faux leather upholstery and a windshield with more cracks and chips than there were clear spaces. Air conditioning was had by rolling down the windows using the old-fashioned hand-crank type us boomers grew up with. Road dust coated our sweat-soaked skin. Rivulets of brown ran down our arms and backs. Our bare thighs stuck to the stained seats.

We were dropped off in front of a grocery store in the main part of town where we were confronted by a shirtless man with a tattoo of a large crucifix over his left pectoral. He was holding an orchid that he was trying to sell. It was obvious that he had torn it out of someone’s garden due to the clump of roots and dirt still attached at its bottom.

“Pay me what you want and I’ll take it!” he said, pleadingly. After we declined, he asked MK if she would trade her sunglasses for the orchid. After again declining his offer, he headed over to the others who shared the taxi with us to try his luck with them.

We walked away in the opposite direction and back to our cottage. But, not after first having to sidestep around an extremely inebriated man who swayed back and forth while sitting on the steps in front of the grocery store surrounded by rubbish, half empty fifths of liquor, and an assortment of broken beer bottles. 

To the north of town was the larger and more remote Playa Grande. This remote and largely empty black sand beach stretched for miles. It was very natural, ungroomed, and left to the forces of nature. On a couple of occasions, we would walk its seemingly endless miles while rarely seeing another soul.

We would return via the gravel road that was off the beach and deeper into the jungle. Dogs were everywhere and, thankfully, very friendly. They seemed to like MK for they stuck to her side for quite a distance. Some of the local pre-teen girls also seemed to like MK. They walked by her side while exaggeratingly swinging their braided ponytails as they tried to keep pace.

Along this road, interspersed with relics of abandoned buildings, were some of the nicer accommodations in the area. But like ours, we were certain these too had their less-than-optimal plumbing systems. In many of our Costa Rican accommodations, like in other parts of the world we have visited, you are implored not to flush any toilet paper. You are asked to instead deposit your used tissue in the waste can conveniently located next to the toilet. And to be courteous to the housekeeper or the next person in line, you must always make sure your tissue is placed "over-easy" and not “sunny-side up” when you leave it in the bin.

Siquirres

Some of the lesser rapids had names like The Snake, Pinball, Double Drop, and The Indian. But the Class IV rapids had names more in keeping with the raucous ride they gave us and our raft, such as Double Mountain, Aye Caramba, and The Cemetery.

It was raining when we piled into our rafts moored on the shoreline of the Pacuare River outside the town of Siquirres. And it would rain for our entire 18- mile float. It did not matter for we were going to get wet anyway. If you had to have a rainy day on a vacation, this would be the day and the activity for it to occur.

There were four rafts as part of our group. Joining us in our raft was Angel, our guide, a young married couple from Houston, and a single young woman (a Taylor Swift look-a-like) from Colorado. The other rafts had similar makeups. Accompanying our group was another raft helmed by a single oarsman who was ferrying supplies to remote downriver lodges and outposts accessible only by this ribbon of water. 

In normal circumstances, the Class II’s and III’s rapids would be exhilarating all by themselves. But given their frequency, they became more of passing joy ride compared to the less frequent but certainly more white-knuckle roller coasters of the Class IV’s.

When reaching calmer water downstream, we took time to soak in our surroundings Mist and low clouds enshrouded the steep jungle-foliaged walls of the canyon through which we paddled. Toucans flittered about. Unknown animals called out from hidden locations deep within the jungle. It was all very primordial. 

Our guide produced a buck knife from deep within his life vest and made quick work of a fresh pineapple, cutting it up into bite size pieces for all of us to share. Not wanting to draw attention to ourselves, MK and I slyly “clinked” together our chunks of fruit to celebrate our adventure and to toast the day, my 65^th birthday.

La Fortuna

When we awoke the following morning in La Fortuna, we were greeted with stunning views of the Arenal volcano that loomed menacingly over the town dominating the scene. It is not dormant and will one day threaten these beautiful surroundings. For now, things were calm and placid with the volcano’s high elevations capped within a cloud bank.

We headed toward the volcano’s flanks and the headlands of the Lost Canyon where we were to start our canyoneering and rappelling adventure. We were pleasantly surprised to learn that MK and I were going to be the only guests. So, it was a very personal and attentive tour; just me, her, and our two guides who MK thought were dreamy and very good looking. Okay - I’m secure with my manhood - I thought they were kind of dreamy too.

This was the first time either of us had tried rappelling. We were fully harnessed, using our left hand to stabilize and our right hand to serve as our brake. Our first rappel, “The Baby,” was an easy 20-foot drop designed to allow one to practice, learn the techniques, and to test the ropes. As instructed, we pushed off with both feet, spread our legs shoulder-width apart, and alternated between strengthening and softening our right-hand grip to feather out the braking effect. We caught on quickly for it was not as hard as we had anticipated.

Our second rappel, the 140 foot “Big Boy”, descended through waterfalls and gushing springs concluding with a plunge into a seven-foot pool of very cold water. This was followed by the biggest rappel of them all: “The Lost Canyon Challenge”, a 200-foot drop blending rappelling with ziplining through the waterfalls and deep jungle foliage.

We continued from there to climb out of the canyon. Often, the streambed served as the trail itself. It was a wet and slippery hike, half in and half out of the running water as we made our way.

Near the end, our guide held us up. He pointed ahead, “I was through here 90 minutes ago with another group and that,” he said pointing ahead, “was not there.”  A rock and mud slide had obliterated the trail. A large tree with a trunk 5-6 foot in diameter had fallen as part of the slide. Its shredded branches along with numerous smaller trees were added to the mix of debris. We had to bushwhack our way through and eventually picked up the trail as it continued on to the other side of this blockage. This bonus adventure added to the rappelling and canyoning adventure we already had.

A short video filmed by one of our guides is at the following link:

On the way back to town, we stopped at El Salto, a popular spot on the Rio Fortuna where young people grab a rope to swing out and dive into the water. Many are unabashed and simply undressed completely to change into and out of their swimwear without shame or modesty. Stick around here and you get an eyeful, let me tell you.

As the day ended, and while I was pleased that I was finally finished with the effects of a head cold that I had been fighting since the beginning of our trip, I learned that I caught the “tourista.” Fun, right? If it’s not one thing it’s another! (Said a girl with the bloody nose).

Monteverde/Santa Elena

We left town early in the morning to travel to the shores of Lake Arenal where we transferred to a boat to cross the lake. The views were magnificent, especially that of the volcano, still capped by clouds but splendid all the same.

The landing area on the far side of the lake was narrow and mud soaked. There were no piers or docks. Boats like ours simply run aground and you hop off into the mud and dirt. The area was crowded with other vans, shuttles, and buses all jostling for space while dodging tourists and guides lining up for their own rides. You would think there would be some effort at improving these landing areas. But I guess if they did so, it would take away from the rugged and remote experience of it all. 

We eventually found our van among the scrum of other vans. We boarded for our trip along muddy, rutted, and potholed gravel roads through the northern edges of the country’s central mountains to the Santa Elena and Monteverde area. 

We knowingly looked toward the south, much further south, where our alter egos, Marcos and Maria, endured a harrowing rain and mud-soaked mountain trek 15 years earlier. Their adventure is detailed in one of our blog posts (click here). Fortunately for us, we would not be taking any type of adventure anywhere near as strenuous as what these two did all those years ago. 

Our four-hour hike the next morning took us up and along various trails through the thick, misty jungles of the Santa Elena cloud forest. Monkeys jumped from branch to branch high up in the trees. Palm-sized tarantulas crossed our trail. Leafcutter ants marched in columns burdened with the oversized leaves they seemingly carried with ease. Macaws roosted high above in the trees. Coatimundi rooted around for grubs and other ants in the nearby undergrowth. They are strange looking animals - like what came about from the congress of a raccoon, a cat, and a monkey after a drunken threesome. 

The following day, we discovered some free things to do. At Ficus La Raiz, we found an amazing Ficus tree crossing a small creek with numerous ancient and tangled tendrils descending toward the nourishment of the water and silt that coursed below. Further on, a walk along the road took us to the outskirts of town to an amazing viewpoint of the far -off Gulf of Nicoya and the Nicoya peninsula, our destination in the coming days.

These free experiences were unusual in that there is little here in Costa Rica (other than walking the beaches) that is free. It had been our experience that if you wanted to visit, see, or do anything anywhere, you must first pay a fee before doing so. There were people and companies that were always trying to part us from our money. I get it. People must make a living. But it was relentless!!

We chatted a bit with a couple from Seattle while cooking dinner in the shared kitchen at our hostel. They were joined by their two young daughters, a teenager and a pre-teen. They had been traveling through Latin America for three months, home schooling along the way, and would soon be returning to the States.

“They miss their friends back home,” their mother wearily said. “And, they’re very tired of hearing us and other people say that this is an experience they’ll never forget, as good as any classroom education they’d receive back home.” 

Before turning in, a middle-aged lady came darting out of her room from down the hallway. She pantomimed her fear since she did not speak English. It became apparent that there was a bug in her room and she was looking for something to scoop it up with. I followed her back to her room with a piece of cardboard I retrieved from the trash. That something turned out to be a scorpion that had set up camp in her shower. With care, we scooped up this villain and found a place far from the hostel’s front door to deposit it.

No sooner did we handle that frightening experience did she once again bolt from her room, this time with a different need. I again followed her into the room and found a big black spider had now taken up residence where the scorpion once was. We repeated our scoop and toss move that we were beginning to get good at.

All was apparently well for the rest of the night for we heard no more screams or further commotion.

Sámara

We wound our way down from the mountains along the rutted and dusty roads towards the plains and coastal areas of the Nicoya Peninsula. Once there, road conditions improved tremendously, at least relative to that which we had become accustomed to over the past several weeks (there actually were striped center lanes, a rarity!).

We passed through towns and villages both small and large. Most of the properties we have seen throughout our travels in Costa Rica are fenced and gated, usually with barbed wire or razor wire strung along the top. And this was the again the case here on our way to the Pacific coast. I read where there is a problem with crimes of opportunity here, so this is the most effective way to help deter this.

While moving through one of the bigger towns, we saw a man with a cane wearing shorts, knee-high blue socks, and black leather shoes. He could hardly walk across the street, even while being lovingly assisted by who appeared to be his daughter and wife. Traffic which was hectic and frantic up until his crossing paused respectfully and patiently while he crossed the street, only to pick up its fast pace again once he reached the other side.

Further along, a young man with his girlfriend were stopped by a man distributing leaflets. After a few paces, the young man crumpled the leaflet and threw it to the ground. Behind him, the man who handed him the leaflet stood dejectedly, his shoulders slumped with disappointment that what he was trying to sell was not even given a notice or acknowledgement.

At speed bumps and crossings with heavy pedestrian traffic, vendors of coconut, mango, orange, and other juices had strategically set up their carts to try and sell their refreshments to passing traffic. They were counting on drivers who have slowed their vehicles to think: ”Well, while I’m here…”.

Our Samara hotel was a piece of paradise, very comfortable and well-appointed (despite the sensitive plumbing!). It was owned and operated by very friendly and accommodating German expats; husband, wife, son, and daughter along with his girlfriend and her boyfriend.

We continued to be surprised at how many expats there are that live and own businesses in Costa Rica. Back in Cahuita there were the Italians who owned our hotel and the refreshment stand/taxi service and the Japanese who owned the grocery store. In La Fortuna, there were the Dutch who owned our hotel. In Samara, there were these Germans who owned our hotel, the Frenchman and his panaderia (with delicious baguettes and pains du chocolate), and the Chinese who owned the grocery store. Added to all were a bunch of Canadians here and Americans there. And of course, there were the Costa Ricans. There were all these different cultures and all these different languages all being spoken at once and interchangeably, and we loved it. 

The Pacific coastal waters were more placid and inviting than what we experienced on the Caribbean side of the country. The beaches were picture-postcard beautiful, very quintessential Costa Rica.

Temperatures in the low 90s required a slow pace as we took our daily walks along the beach. Bathtub-warm waters called for snorkeling next to the headlands where the coral reefs were accessible at low tide. Cooling salads and beverages made up our meals that we prepared at our hotel’s open-aired kitchen. Lounging on our beach towels while reading our books in the shade of a palm tree took up many hours. It was blissful. Not a care or worry in the world.  

Oh, except maybe to always remember: “Over-easy" only. No "sunny-side up!”

If you would like to read and learn more about our other adventures from around the world, please go to our homepage by clicking here.