by Levison Wood
‘Have you ever been this high before?’ I asked Alberto.
‘Just in an airplane,’ he smiled.
As Mari and Ken scrambled up behind us and settled onto a rock, we stood in wonderment while the sky grew redder and the sun rose above the eastern horizon. It lit up the landscape, revealing dozens of previously hidden mountain lakes glistening in the morning sun. Far away to the north, I could see a plume of smoke erupting from a distant volcano and then, as the shadows lifted further, I found the view I had come this far to see.
To the east shone the Caribbean Sea, merging into the sunrise, and with a sweep of a hundred and eighty degrees, I looked behind me and there was the golden panorama of the Pacific; two oceans from one vantage point, separated by one narrow spit of land, and here we were, balanced on its spine.
The rays of sun brought warmth and it felt as though an ordeal was over. We’d conquered Costa Rica’s highest mountain and survived this far in the journey, and looking south towards the rolling hills of Panama, it felt like we’d reached a crucial milestone.
‘It’s all downhill from here,’ I smiled at Alberto.
He laughed.
‘I’ll believe that when I see it,’ he said.
Of course, it wasn’t likely to be all downhill. But a lot of it would be, and what’s more, both of us felt like we had achieved something remarkable in getting this far, and that whatever lay ahead couldn’t stop us feeling victorious.
‘Six hundred miles to go,’ I said, watching as a vulture swept high above.
‘Easy,’ said Alberto. ‘Vamos.’
‘Let’s go.’
We descended past the shimmering lakes back down through the Páramo and into the cloud forest below. We had a spring in our step and all our worries seemed to have disappeared. We were going to do this, and dammit, we were going to enjoy it, too.
As we descended, it felt as if the morning sun brought the forest alive. Howler monkeys squealed with excitement as we passed beneath them and a host of flashing toucans danced a merry jig in the branches nearby. It’s hard to explain the feeling of delight having climbed a mountain. It is more than victory or achievement, it goes beyond the ego and personal triumph. The real conquest lies in the sheer joy at having seen that view, one that few have witnessed; not because of pride or boastfulness but because, for a brief moment in time, you feel connected to the earth and all that’s in it.
We came upon a flat plateau on the way down. We’d taken a different route to the south and so we ventured into an environment unlike anything I’d seen before. We entered a misty highland valley, where the ferns and plants looked oversized and surreal. The grass was long, like the elephant grasses of the African plains, but this plain was surrounded by tall ancient trees filled with spider monkeys, and I felt like we’d been transported into prehistory. As the dew twinkled in the morning haze and we waded through the still grass, there was something magical in the air, and Alberto felt it, too.
‘You know, it’s not often I’m blown away by things,’ he said. ‘But this journey has changed me. For the better, I mean. I’ve forgotten about all my problems and worries, and you know what, I don’t even hold a grudge against my ex-wife anymore. Nothing really matters does it? I mean, who gets to see the things we have seen, or walk in places like this? I feel like we’re in Jurassic Park and I wouldn’t be surprised if a Tyrannosaurus Rex walked out of that forest. It’s all super wonderful,’ he said, with his splendid Mexican accent.
‘I know what you mean,’ I replied. ‘I feel very lucky.’
It took four hours to reach the village of San Jerónimo, where we could spend the night in a little lodge and recover.
The next day we walked on to a town called Buenos Aires, where we rejoined the Pan-American Highway, following it along the course of the Rio General, with its beautiful waterfalls and lush, green rainforests.
‘Look,’ whispered Alberto, pointing up at a tree on the side of the highway.
I looked up, expecting a howler monkey, but instead I was delighted to see up close a sloth, only ten metres away, hugging a branch.
It was much smaller than I expected, like a dog. But its downturned eyes and permanent smile meant that you couldn’t help falling a little bit in love with this shaggy little beast.
Alberto whistled and the animal very slowly came to life, raising its elongated head in the direction of the road, where it surveyed us with dim, black eyes. Realising there was no threat, the sloth immediately turned the other way and went back to sleep.
The river was brown and powerful after weeks of heavy rain, but it felt good to follow its course downhill and over the bridges that spanned its mighty flow.
Everywhere the rainforest exploded in a profusion of colours and sounds. Crickets bounded through the undergrowth and strange mushrooms blossomed from the hedgerows, like some ethereal vision. The beauty of nature revealed itself in Costa Rica in a way that I could only have imagined. Everywhere we went, we’d discover wonderful things. Bright-red frogs sheltered from the sun under delicate roofs of greenery; these were the poison arrow frogs of legend, the ones that the native Indians used for their blowpipe darts. I picked one up carefully, remembering that it is only deadly if its poison gets into your bloodstream. It sat quite contentedly on my hand for a while, before leaping off into a pool of crystal water.
This was the Costa Rica I had read about in magazines, it came late but it was there in all its glory, even in the rainy season.
We were weary with tired, aching legs, but happy. We picked our way south towards Guácimo through endless coffee plantations. This was the cash crop of Costa Rica, and the basis of a cottage industry now so big that entire cultures have grown around it across the globe. Everywhere were the tall hedgerows surrounding vast plantations of the little berries in various stages of growth. Here in the south of the country it was indigenous Indians that picked it, although now wasn’t the season, so there were none around.
‘They come from Panama, mostly,’ said Silvio, beckoning us to drop our bags. Mari had arranged for us to meet one of her hippy friends, an Italian expatriate who had put down roots in the highlands. He was good-looking, but wore a tatty, knitted cardigan and had long, matted hair and weathered skin.
‘They’re good workers and I pay them well,’ he carried on, as I took stock of our host for the night.
We’d arrived late at the little eco-lodge that Silvio ran with his wife, a native Indian woman half his age. The house was ramshackle and full of character. ‘I built it myself,’ said the fifty-year-old, with his piercing green eyes. He was rightfully proud of his little empire in the hills.
‘Make yourself comfortable, you can sleep in the Palapa next door.’
He showed us into a large, rounded thatched hut with a fireplace in the middle. Outside there was a natural volcanic hot spring. I dipped my hand in the pool of delicious warm water.
‘Feel free to take a bath,’ he smiled.
After the rigours of the last few days, it was a welcome rest. As night fell and the fireflies came out to dance, and the crickets filled the air with their enchanting song, we were finally able to relax and enjoy a good hot meal, whilst Silvio told us all about his coffee.
‘You know, we only use around twenty per cent of the coffee in the West. We throw away the husk and the skin and that’s the good stuff.’ He handed me a pile of unroasted, sundried beans.
‘Here, I use everything, One hundred per cent. And I don’t roast it as that kills off the goodness. I just dry it out and grind it up. We call it green coffee. It’s like green tea. Very healthy!’
His enthusiasm for the bean was infectious, as he described the health benefits of his magic coffee. ‘We make coffee milkshakes, and coffee-flavoured dried banana,’ he proceeded to dig out bags full of various types of his coffee-infused products, ‘and coffee drops – and even coffee pills.’
He passed me a medicine bottle full of pills of coffee powder.
‘I can’t say I’ve e
ver heard of coffee pills before,’ I said, astonished.
‘The revolution is coming, my friend. And this is where it starts. These pills will help people to lose weight, have better metabolisms, and give you more energy than any of those energy drinks that people consume, and it’s all natural and good for you.’
I was about to try one when he grabbed it from my hand.
‘Not now!’ he laughed. ‘If you have that, you’ll be awake all night and you need to sleep. Try it tomorrow.’
He was right. It was time to sleep.
The next day we pushed on through immaculate wooden villages, which looked like they’d been plucked straight out of the Alps. With dainty little Lutheran churches and picket-fences, it was hard to imagine that we were still in Central America. These were the legacy of the German and Swiss immigrants, who came in the early twentieth century to establish the coffee and chocolate industries in a country that was almost uninhabited until the Europeans arrived. At the turn of the twentieth century, there were fewer than three hundred thousand people living in this virgin jungle nation, and most of them were foreigners. The indigenous Indians, for whatever reason, had populated Panama to the south but had barely settled in Costa Rica, where only a handful had maintained a nomadic lifestyle. Most of the country was pristine wilderness, and it was only when Europeans saw the potential for coffee that anyone really bothered with the place.
So for a while we wandered through the hills to the south in a kind of fairytale land, spending nights in eco-lodges, bird watching and drinking some of the finest coffee around. It was a wonderful time and a place we were reluctant to leave. But not far to the south was the Panama border; our penultimate country beckoned.
We left the town of San Vito and walked along an unpaved road towards the border. There wasn’t a single car on the road as it stretched out over the hills, and when I checked my map on the phone, it seemed that we might have already crossed into Panama without even knowing it. But after ten kilometres and a couple of hours’ walking, it appeared that the map was wrong. It felt strange that there would be a border here, in this remote bit of farmland, but there was an immigration post after all, and when we arrived we were the only ones wanting to cross. There was no fence or even a line, merely a motley collection of concrete buildings, where we had to get stamped out of Costa Rica by a bored-looking man who was far more interested in watching the football on his TV. There were no questions asked, only a brief smile and goodbye.
The Panamanian side was even more disorganised. There was a village hardware shop, where a man selling machetes, hammers and pet parrots also doubled-up as the chap who stamped our passports.
‘I think Panama is going to be fun,’ said Alberto, as the stamp came down on his passport and the man welcomed us to his country.
We said goodbye to Mari, who had kindly walked with us this far, and she jumped in a car to go back home. I’d entered Costa Rica full of worry and doubt, but leaving it now, we were ready for whatever the Americas could throw at us. The Darién Gap seemed like a mere formality and for now we were simply looking forward to enjoying the mysteries of the jungle beyond.
18
Panama
Mist rolled in over the hills and it was getting late. ‘We need to change some money before everything closes,’ I suggested to Alberto, as we wandered down the hill into the village of Sereno.
Everything felt different here in Panama.
‘Look, the people are all wearing traditional clothes,’ said Alberto. ‘It’s like we’ve gone back in time.’
It was, too. Well, for the women at least. Where the men were all in scruffy shirts and wellington boots, the women were almost all wearing colourful, flowing dresses in lime-green, orange and purple, with gold tassels in their hair and sparkling jewellery.
‘Excuse me.’ Alberto stopped a lady to ask where we could change money. She giggled coyly and walked away without answering.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.
‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘Maybe they don’t speak Spanish.’
‘She speaks Spanish,’ came the voice of a man who’d been watching us. ‘They’re just shy, the women. We don’t get many foreigners coming this way. Where are you from?’
We told the man, who looked like a farmer. He was leaning against a wooden shack, picking his nails with a machete. Behind him was a cage full of parrots shuffling around.
‘Well, you won’t need to change money then. If you’ve got dollars, that’s what we use. We haven’t used balboa in decades.’ He laughed. ‘This is basically America, you gringos are welcome.’
‘But we’re not American, I’ve told you.’
‘Ah,’ he waved his hand, ‘all the same, mi amigo. You’re welcome. If you need anything, food, or supplies, go find the Chinese, they will sort you out. Don’t expect much help from the Panamanians.’
We found a Chinese supermarket around the corner, and it did indeed seem like it was the only place in the village that was open. Actually, no, there were plenty of places open, but finding anywhere that sold what we wanted, or anywhere that appeared to have anyone working, was another matter.
‘They’re very lazy,’ said the elderly Chinese woman who worked on the till. ‘That’s why we come and set up shop,’ she muttered.
We walked to the town of Volcán, revelling in the excitement of being in a new and unfamiliar country. The landscape was every bit as sweeping and grand as that of Costa Rica, but perhaps even more wild. With less agriculture and coffee plantations, the whole upland pine area had a raw, untouched feel, and we arrived in the town of Volcán feeling invigorated. The journey east took us high into the cloud forests of the volcanic uplands of the Fortuna Forest Reserve. We discovered beautiful lagoons, untouched forests, and caves full of bats and creatures that I could scarcely imagine existed.
‘Now I understand why you like exploring so much,’ said Alberto one day, as we emerged out of a valley and crossed the Cangilones gorge. ‘It’s the way that no two days are the same. Like a few days ago, I literally thought my heart was going to stop beating when we were climbing up that mountain Chirripó, and yet other days we were walking through jungles that nobody has been in since the cavemen first came this way. And yesterday in that cave with those spiders, shit, they looked like something from outer space.’
We’d found ourselves in a jungle, confronted by a long cavern on the outskirts of a village, when the chief invited us to go and have a look around inside.
‘I’ve lived here all my life,’ said Justalino, a round man about my own age, ‘and I’ve still never found the end.’
He’d led the way as we picked a path into the darkness, along a subterranean river that led deep into the mountain. Within fifty metres or so, it was pitch black apart from the narrow shafts of light from our torches. We’d walked in for an hour in almost total silence. As the water got deeper, sometimes we’d had to swim and wade along the river until we reached an underground beach. There, Justalino had pointed to the roof and we’d been treated to one of the most spectacular, and terrifying, sights of our lives. Not more than two metres above our heads was a colony of hundreds of thousands of vampire bats, swinging from their feet.
‘Holy shit,’ said Alberto, his eyes widening as we both cowered. We’d woken them up and a few started fluttering about. ‘Aren’t they dangerous?’ he said, stunned.
‘No,’ said Justalino. ‘They don’t bite often, its usually just cattle, and never in here, they go outside to do that. Watch out for those, though.’
Justalino took great pleasure in pointing out a huge black spider only inches from Alberto’s head, dangling on the rocky cave wall. It was as big as a tarantula, but more sinister looking, with long spindly legs and most horrific of all, two enormous pincers at its front instead of legs. It looked more like a scorpion, but without a tail.
He laughed nervously and backed away.
There was suddenly a splash between my legs and I shone my light down to see a schoo
l of perfectly blue fish with no eyes swimming around my feet; the result of some freakish cave evolution, which meant that everything that lived in here was completely blind.
We left the cave the same way we came, trusting Justalino’s judgement that the cave was indeed endless and led to the centre of the earth. It was one of many incredible encounters that we’d found along the way, and one of the reasons that I maintain a desire to keep exploring, even when it seems the whole world has been explored.
‘And now,’ Alberto carried on, as we reached the famous gorge, ‘here we are faced with yet another death-defying jump into the unknown. But I’m not even scared any more. If you’d told me four months ago that I would have to climb mountains, and hack through jungles, and eat termites and see those fucking spiders, and jump off cliffs into rivers full of crocodiles, I’d have said you must be crazy.’
He grinned and patted me on the back.
‘But now, it’s totally normal, and we’ve seen things that most people will never get to see.’
He flung himself into the gorge, jumping three metres into the flowing waters. I followed soon after, bags and boots and all, and let the current take me down to a beach on the other side, where we could get out of the river and carry on walking. It didn’t matter that we were wet. Nothing like that mattered any more. If we were cold, so be it, we’d warm up by walking. If we were wet, so be it, we’d dry off in the sun. If we were hungry, that didn’t matter either, because sooner or later we’d find food.
I suppose it was all about having faith, letting go of your worries and trusting that things will all work out the way they are supposed to. We were both in good health. In fact, we were both as fit as we’d been in a long time, and there hadn’t been any accidents or injuries, and so what more could we ask for? It was time to be grateful for being on the road and take whatever came our way, so that’s what we did.
Heading south-east, we left the mountains behind and descended into the rolling countryside of central Panama, where we skirted the Pacific coast for the first time since seeing it from the top of Cerro Chirripó in Costa Rica. Here we joined the Pan-American Highway once again and even though it was one and the same road, it felt good to be on it. Perhaps it was the knowledge that in only a couple of hundred miles we’d reach the comfort of Panama City, and then we’d be on the home straight; or maybe it was simply the fact that we’d broken the back of the expedition and thought, rightly or wrongly, that the hardest part was behind us.
