March 2011
Part One
In spite of being on a sabbatical this year, I find myself at Toronto International airport on the Friday afternoon of March break. I am on my way to Costa Rica, in central America. This is traditionally one of the busiest days of travel for Canadians. Normally I try to avoid this time, but I am accommodating Meg’s week long holiday. However, she is not arriving until tomorrow, so today I travel alone. My anxiety level is slightly higher than usual. I attribute this to the two week long ear infection that I’ve been battling, making me feel like my head is under water. And also to the fact that I am not flying to either France or India, my most visited destinations. My comfort level with language, money and cultural customs is missing, as well as the friends that I always look forward to seeing in those parts of the world. But ever the adventurer, it is time to try something new. I have packed my backpack for three countries, which in itself posed a challenge with all the different activities planned, including a four-day hike up the Macchu Pichu trail.
Thankfully, today the flights are uneventful, pain free and blissfully short compared to flying to India. I check into the very quaint Hotel Santo Tomas in San Jose and upgrade to a room with a balcony and a breeze, enchanted by the gorgeous mosaic tile floors. It is late so all the establishments have closed. Meg and I would later notice that all through Costa Rica, restaurants close up very early and we would often be the last ones around at nine p.m. But tonight it is already eleven p.m. Out of luck, I go to bed hungry.
I spend the next day walking around downtown San Jose, particularly Avenue Central, for pedestrians only. The architecture is a mixture of lovely old classical buildings interspersed with ugly cement structures. Hawkers are everywhere, mostly selling local lottery tickets. I am surprised that they are not nearly as aggressive as in India. I sit in the window of a café sipping a latte and watch the world go by. The Saturday shoppers walk with purpose. Most of the women wear trousers, slightly overweight, their muffin tops extruding above their pants. The weather is not as warm as I had anticipated, perhaps around 23 degrees only. On the way back, I pick up some mangoes and a bottle of Malbec Argentinian wine.
I spend the late afternoon in my room, relaxing and catching up with friends and family on Skype. The last few weeks have been incredibly busy with the recent launch of my book, “Mommy When Are We Going Home?” so I am happy to unwind a bit and drink some wine. At eight o’clock, I get the call that Meaghan has arrived downstairs and run to gather her up in a big hug.
We spend the next morning exploring San Jose. We pause in front of a lovely old decaying palatial home that is for sale. “Oh Meg, let’s buy this. You could make pies and I could run a small hotel and sit on those ornate circular balconies,” I say. She laughs as we dream and make plans. We love doing pretends when we travel.
After lunch, Meg and I check out of our hotel and head for the local bus stop. We sit on wooden benches in a dubious part of town, waiting an hour for the ticket booth to open. Other backpackers join us. At two o’clock, we line up to buy our five dollar tickets to Monteverde and board the bus. It is not bad, the seats are plush, although dusty and the windows open. Meg and I find ourselves at the very back of the bus. Most of the travelers are women. A few extra seats remain. We settle in for we’ve been told is a four and a half hour ride.
As we leave San Jose, the landscape becomes more verdant. Costa Rica is incredibly hilly and the wind is always blowing. We are on the milk run and stop frequently to pick up locals along the way. Soon the bus is packed along with standing passengers. After two hours, we stop for a much needed pee break and Meg and I grab a snack of dried fried plantains and an iced tea. We stand around until the whistle blows and we reload to our same seats, anxious to get moving. But it is not to be. As we sit, Meg and I notice that our bus driver is over beside another bus helping someone who is working underneath that bus. We sit and sweat and sweat some more. But do not move. Fifteen minutes passes, then thirty. Our eyes do not leave our bus driver. He continues to stand by his buddy’s bus, handing him tools. We sit and stew. Finally there is some movement. Our driver comes onto our bus and yells in Spanish for everyone to get off and get on the other bus!
As the passengers on the other bus line up to load our bus, we all crawl off, collect our backpacks from underneath and walk hesitatingly to the bus that was just recently worked on. We pile on but soon realize to our dismay that we have lost our seats to the locals. I grab a couple of other seats for Meg and I but there is frustration as some of the ticketholders like us from San Jose are now without seats. Meanwhile our bus driver has disappeared so there is no one to help resolve the situation. Eventually a new driver gets on, resolves nothing and starts the bus. We sit and ponder the change of bus and driver. Perhaps he got a call from his wife to come home early? Perhaps a hot date? Or perhaps this bus could not be trusted to go wherever it was going? We’ll never know. Instead we try to sit back and not worry about what is wrong with this bus.
Sitting back however, is impossible. There is barely five inches between my seat and the one in front of me and I cannot put my legs forward. Meg’s seat is no better. She sticks her long legs into the aisle so I can twist mine sideways into her space. We remain in this contorted position for the next three hours. But at least we do not have to stand, like some others. The last hour up to Monteverde, we rattle up twelve kilometers of unpaved, rutted, washboard road that apparently the local Quakers refuse to be paved to keep the number of tourists down. By now, it is pitch dark but I get the feeling from the twinkling lights below that we are on the edge of steep drop-offs. Meg sleeps beside me, oblivious to the danger. We crawl ahead slowly, the headlights the only illumination of the steep and twisty road.
At nine o’clock, we finally arrive and pile off the bus with a huge sigh. We grab our backpacks and head out to find the Quetzel Inn, about two hundred meters away. But we are two hours late and our room with a view has been given away. We are assigned the very last room, a small camp like room that smells amazingly of cedar. Our luck turns when we find a fabulous restaurant, the Tree House, built around a fifty year old fig tree. Our exhaustion fades away as we sit outside by an outdoor heater, sipping red wine out of hand blown glasses. Meaghan’s mushroom filled crepes with a curry sauce are to die for. Happily we head back to our little room and fall into bed.
The next morning, after a breakfast of cold coffee and rock hard pancakes that Meg suggests we use for Frisbees, we search around for another place to stay. But the only place that appeals to us has no vacancies so we head back to Quetzel Inn and change into our promised room with a balcony. Not that it overlooks very much, only some clotheslines and gravel. One chair sits on the balcony. I ask twice for another but it never comes.
We spend three days in Monteverde hiking and zip lining. Our charming host, Grevin at Quetzel Inn makes suggestions for various tours and activities. “Perhaps you are interested in the ‘orse shit museum” he asks. “The ‘orse shit museum?” Meg attempts to clarify. “Yes, the ‘orse shit museum.” I stifle a giggle as we realize that he is referring to the ‘orchid’ museum. “No thanks,” we both say but opt instead for some hiking trips. Our first hike includes eight suspension bridges and beautiful paths through the forest. The rain forest is dense with verdant foliage but we don’t spot any birds. It is cool, necessitating a sweater.
Our second hike in the Cloud Forest Reserve is longer, with breathtaking with vast vistas and towering old trees. We cross the continental divide and hike for hours. But the highlight of our stay is the zip lining, a new experience for me. Meaghan and I rise early for a 7:00 start, thinking we must be out of our minds to be getting out of our warm beds to go zip lining. But it is so worth it. After a short shuttle ride, we are deposited at the center and geared up. A cheery staff member gives us a lesson on how to grab the line that attaches us to the main line with our left hand, put our right arm straight back and hold the main line, leaving our hand open in an O to allow the line to run through. To go faster, we are instructed to sit back more, cross our legs and bend our knees. To brake, we are to close the O with our heavily gloved hand and pull our body up. Excited, we set out to get started.
As we zip from one line to another, sometimes at a pace that barely allows me to catch my breath, we are clearly told at what point we need to brake on each line. Ideally you do not want to brake too soon and get stuck out on a line, necessitating one of the workers to scoot out to get you. That would just be embarrassing. Some lines are short, running through the trees while others crossed entire valleys. Traversing over the canopy of treetops, I am strangely relaxed and look around. The vistas are stunning. It was incredible to see valleys from a bird’s eye view. My braking goes well and I never have to be rescued. I am so hooked on this ‘sport’. At one point, my harness is changed around and I am instructed not to touch the line at any point. I superman over a long valley, looking face first down at the trees, my arms out like a bird. The variety of colours of green is amazing. The winds blows me gently sideways but not enough to worry me. It is exhilarating.
The finale is incredible. For some reason, I am the one in the lead of our entire group and also clearly the eldest. We are instructed to walk to the end of the long ramp, one by one. (Later I realize this is so that the next person in line does not see what is happening.) I walk out, wondering what this is all about. Two men hook me up to a 150 foot hanging rope. Intrigued, I ask what I am supposed to do, when to brake. “Just hold this line with both hands and don’t worry about braking,” the worker tells me. “Now bend your knees.” I don’t move. “Bend your knees,” he tells me again. A gate clicks open and I pitch forward into a free fall that reminds me of a recurring dream that I have had all my life. As I fall, my heart is in my throat until the rope jerks and I begin to swing like Tarzan. Three times back and forth I swing until a brake rope is thrown over my line and stops me immediately. Ecstatic, I want to run right back up the hill and do it all again. But alas, this is the end of my forty dollar zip lining experience for today. Meaghan follows after me, shrieking in fear and then in delight. We watch as others jump, some sounding very much like Tarzan. Only one person turns back after getting to the end of the ramp, refusing to jump. Tired, but happy, Meaghan and I head back to our hotel.
Sadly, our days in Monteverde come to an end all too soon and we prepare to leave. We have met some lovely people, ate amazing (although pricier than expected) meals and explored the rainforests. There are lots of activities and sights that we did not have time to do, but now it is time to head for the beach.
