by John Higham
Tortuguero is infested with roosters. With no glass in the windows of our guest house, there is simply no sleeping in after the roosters call out “Mister Blackburn” to tell him to go milk the cows.
Still, you can’t help but like a place where the main street through town is a footpath made of sand, paved in the muddy places with coconut shells.
Tortuguero is as hot as an oven and humid as a steam room. Locally, the area is known as the Amazon of Costa Rica. Besides the giant sea turtles, which only visit long enough to lay eggs and then leave, Tortuguero is chock-full of crocodiles, sloths, snakes, and these nasty stinging ants that attack you if you accidentally touch their tree. Naturally, people flock there by the hundreds. There is something green and leafy clinging to anything and everything—from telephone poles, to the tops of picnic tables, to the ropes holding up the occasional suspension bridge.
While other Central American countries have seen much of their rain forest disappear due to slash-and-burn agriculture and other unfortunate uses of the land, the Costa Rican government, starting in the 1950s, established large national parks and reserves. Today, 27 percent of the land in Costa Rica is protected, preserving the landscape and forest habitats and setting the stage for a very successful tourist industry focusing on ecotourism. The effort shows.
It is also the kind of place where you can go through as much insect repellent as water. We stayed at a hostel with Mr. Bitey. He is the parrot who sits on his owner’s shoulder looking cute and innocent. But try to stroke his feathers and he will demonstrate a parrot’s ability to crack a Brazil nut, using your finger as an example.
The people of Tortuguero are fiercely proud of “their” turtles. Fifty years ago the population harvested the turtles in huge numbers for meat, but now the village is wholeheartedly engaged in turtle conservation, often deploying large groups of schoolchildren to guard nesting sites. We adopted a sea turtle for $25 at the conservation center. We are now the proud parents of Turtle 24601 and when “our” turtle is spotted in the wild we receive an e-mail update.
There are two ways to explore Tortuguero National Park. You can walk along a nature trail that is six inches underwater when it’s raining, and only two inches underwater when it isn’t. Or, you can canoe along a never-ending series of canals and rivers. We opted for both methods. On our canoe trip every time we saw two eyes poking up out of the water September would go rigid.
Jordan’s Journal, February 5
Today we went on a canoe tour through the jungle in the canals. We had a lot of fun. I liked the smaller canals best, because we were surrounded by green, green, green. I mean, the branches had vines hanging down from them blocking the canals, and the tree trunks had ivy and other plants growing on them. It was really the jungle. And I enjoyed the animals, also. We saw a three-toed sloth, sleeping in a tree, where it looked like a lump of fur. We also saw a two-toed sloth climbing slowly around the tree. We also saw a few caiman, which are like small crocodiles, but all you see are two beady eyes and sometimes part of a snout poking out of the water. Our guide says they are waiting for birds to snatch. Mom freaked out when she saw the eyes so close to the canoe. But we didn’t see any blue or red tree frogs, or poison arrow ones. Oh, well. There’s always next time.
Two days, two buses, and one boat later we arrived at Sixaola, Costa Rica. Pedestrian border crossings can be intimidating, unlike their sterile cousins that greet you at an international airport. At an airport, you are behind pretty good security, and there aren’t any questionable characters floating around. At Sixaola there is a wide river that defines the border between Panama and Costa Rica, and an old, abandoned train bridge suspended high across the river. On one side of the bridge is Costa Rica’s immigration control building, and on the other is Panama’s. In theory, you just walk across the bridge and then find transport on the other side and go on to your destination.
But we expected a huge crush of people hoping to make a buck. So, before we even stepped off our bus, we hired the services of one Mr. Wile E. Coyote. Okay, that is our made-up name for him. But he spoke good English, and we reasoned it could be handy to have a willing translator for finding ground transport on the other side.
We soon found ourselves on the old, wooden railroad bridge that defines the border. A sign hung above the beginning of the bridge, welcoming us to Panama. In front of us were about two hundred feet of weathered, cracked, wooden planks to cross before we would get to Panamanian immigration. The huge railroad ties under our feet were spaced far enough apart that if you slipped off the wooden planks nailed to the ties you just might fall through to the river below. It would be a tight squeeze for an adult, but I didn’t want to test how much room there was between the ties with one of the kids.
We worked our way across the bridge, choosing our footing with care. Behind us was a huge semi truck loaded with bananas, bumping its way along, parting the pedestrian traffic to the sides. We rushed to beat the truck across the bridge and were never so happy to have our feet on terra firma.
So, like, welcome to Panama.
21.
A Pirate in the Caribbean
February 9–February 27
Panama
Okay, everyone, hum along—you all know the tune:
Just sit right back and you’ll hear a tale
A tale of a fateful trip
That started from this tropic port,
Aboard this tiny ship …
I used to love watching Gilligan’s Island as a kid. I’d sit in front of our black-and-white TV and fantasize about the lifestyle of the marooned. No schoolwork. What a life! As an adult, when the pressure of the rat race would build up, I would frequently quip “We are going to sell everything and move to Gilligan’s Island.”
Our first stop on our way to South America was straight for what we hoped was going to be our island paradise. Bocas del Toro (literally “Mouths of the Bull” en Español) is the name of both the Panamanian province and the main town in a group of small islands off the Caribbean coast of Panama. Some of the islands support only a few families while in Bocas (as it is known locally) the town’s most modern amenity is its grass airfield. It has an easygoing, laid-back atmosphere that quickly infected us to the point that we stayed much, much longer than planned.
Upon our arrival in Bocas we happened to meet Lori, who had recently moved to Panama from Arizona. After a short visit we headed straight for her B&B, Hacienda del Toro, on a tiny island nestled in Dolphin Bay. Yes, there are dolphins in the bay; watching them, one would think that they were participating in Sea World tryouts.
John’s Journal, February 11
We arrived in Bocas del Toro, Panama. To get here we took a boat through canals that were made to take bananas to market, but which have long been abandoned. Now the canals are lined with shanties that look like they came from the set of Deliverance, but the people on the porches wave rather than leer. The person who sat behind us in our boat was getting married the next day. She was holding her large wedding cake, trying to shelter it from the spray as we crossed the channel to the island of Bocas. We are now at a B&B run by Americans Neil and Lori. Wasabi, their pet parrot, whistles the theme song to The Bridge Over the River Kwai at the crack of dawn. He is worse than a rooster, but how can you get mad at him?
Neil the Pirate lives on his own island with his wife and son. They have no car, as there are no roads whatsoever on their island. Every morning they watch the children of their indigenous neighbors walk out of their houses in crisp school uniforms, climb into a dugout canoe, and paddle to school.
Neil was once a cowboy who lived on his ranch in Arizona, but when Arizona became too civilized, he traded his Stetson for two gold earrings. With Wasabi perched on his shoulder, he personifies the part of a pirate in the Caribbean. “There is only one thing more dangerous to a rain forest than an Indian with a chainsaw,” he told me as he leaned across the bar, “and that’s real-estate developers with an agenda.”
His indigenous nei
ghbors raised cattle and every few months they would clear-cut a few more acres of their island home. Neil added, “My neighbors are coming around though. We pay them for access to their land when our guests hike or go on horseback rides through their property. They’re beginning to understand that right of access is more profitable than milking Betsy the cow. Now if I could just save Red Frog Beach from developers.”
Neil went on to describe how well-financed developers persuaded the president of Panama to look the other way and turn the once-pristine home for the endangered red tree frog on its head. Now with a former Miss Universe for its spokesperson, North Americans were flocking to purchase the beautiful villas at Red Frog Beach, sadly missing its namesake.
Neil went on to tell me everything he loved about his island home. “The only thing really missing here is a good boat mechanic in Bocas,” Neil said. “A good one would be able to name his price and would be turning business away.”
September gave me the briefest of glances. In just a few milliseconds, her subtle eyebrow raise communicated a lifetime of shared experiences. We sometimes dreamed of escaping the rat race, and this idyllic island paradise had a need. Neither of us had worked on a boat before, but she was well aware that I have turned a few wrenches in my lifetime, and we both know how to take a class.
Neil’s American neighbor, Frankie, lived across the bay on his own private island. Frankie had delivered yachts for a living until he retired. Now Frankie keeps himself amused by raising cows and growing organic cocoa beans. Roasting the beans himself, using his own secret recipe of thirty-one herbs and spices, he makes his own chocolate bars to sell to tourists.
How cool is that?
With Dylan, Neil and Lori’s thirteen-year-old son as our guide we went on a horseback riding trip, looking for “poison arrow” tree frogs. “I’ll get one for you,” Dylan said, jumping off his horse and catching one in his bare hands. He must have seen the expression on my face. “They aren’t that poisonous. Unless you have an open wound and smear the frog’s skin into it, you’ll be fine.”
Just like that, forty-odd years of playground folklore evaporated.
Jordan’s Journal, February 19
Today we finally went on that snorkeling trip. First we rode in a boat and saw dolphins. Then we went to this cool place where we could snorkel off the dock. We saw a barracuda as big as me!!! The way I spotted it was scary. I was swimming right by the dock when a gigantic Godzilla fish appeared. It started swimming over to me with its mouth open showing me its half-inch razor-sharp teeth like it was going to eat me. I swam for the ladder on the other side of the dock as fast as I could. The problem was someone was getting out very slowly and I had to be too polite to save my own life.
After a few days on Neil and Lori’s island, we were back on the main island of Bocas, heading to a place described to us as “as far away as you can get from anywhere.” Our taxi driver parted his shoulder-length dreadlocks, smiled at us with his three remaining teeth, and said with his thick Caribbean accent, “De car. Eet iz ’ongree. Eet will need a snack b’fore eet will go oll de way to Drago.”
Ongree? What does that mean? Why doesn’t anyone sell a dictionary of Caribbean English? Our driver continued, “You juss geev me some o’ dat mohney now an’ I kin feed de car, ah-right?”
Our taxi driver drove through a neighborhood and came to a stop next to a run-down house. He got out and chatted with some people for a bit, then went inside.
“Any idea where our driver’s going?” I asked September.
She laughed. “Okay, new math story problem, Jordan. James works at a store. The store is usually open before lunch and often closes before dinner. Where will you find James taking his siesta?”
A few moments later our driver came out with two Coke bottles full of the car’s snack. He tipped the contents of the Coke bottles into the gas tank and off we went.
But we didn’t go to Drago, at least not right away. Our driver had friends that needed chatting up. Since Drago was on the far end of the island, he didn’t want to miss an opportunity for socializing along the way. We drove along slowly with the windows down so that the driver could simultaneously drive and converse with his buddies, and ask if anyone had any errands they might need to run in Drago.
We had come to Drago for one reason. September and I had been searching the world for our version of utopia—just in case we decided to never return from our trip. Lauterbrunnen was one possibility, but the Swiss immigration requirements are pretty high: The Swiss are trying to keep their country void of riffraff like rocket scientists by requiring large sums of cash and friends that will vouch for your integrity. I’d always suspected the two always went hand in hand.
Although the island of Bocas del Toro was a world apart from the Alps, its laid-back Caribbean lifestyle was tremendously infectious. The few cabins that made up the village of Boca del Drago, or simply Drago, were at the end of a long road on the far side of the island.
Approaching Drago for the first time, I noted the last section of road ran across the beach and was submerged. Our taxi driver waited for the precise moment for the tide to recede then made a dash before the surf submerged the road again.
There are no hotels or inns in Drago; the only place to stay is at a cabin owned by the Biological Research Foundation, which does sea turtle and other marine research. Since it wasn’t sea turtle season, their cabin was available. The caretakers were even kind enough to run the generator from dusk until 10:00 p.m. so we would have electricity part of the day.
Aside from a couple of cabins, there is absolutely nothing at Drago. Nothing, that is, except for an azure lagoon and a narrow, deserted white-sand beach lined with coconut palms as far as the eye can see. It was what the eye couldn’t see that made us leave our dream of settling on Gilligan’s Island behind us.
“Something bit me!” September exclaimed. She reached down and pinched … nothing. At least that’s what it looked like.
Ever heard of a “no-see-um?” Neither had we, until our arms and legs were covered with itchy scabs. I am sure that “no-see-ums” have a proper Latin name, but the locals’ description of these pests seemed pretty accurate. After several days in idyllic Drago, Jordan, the tastiest of our bunch, looked like a teenager without a dermatologist.
September was quick enough to pinch one of the culprits between her fingers and held it up for me. To my 45-year-old eyes it looked like a cross between a salt grain and a sugar granule, only blurrier. I had learned that I had to trust Katrina to be my eyes when it came to stuff like this. “Katrina,” I called, “can you tell what this is?”
“Of course,” she grinned. “It’s a bean sprout. Try it and tell me what it tastes like.”
When we arrived in Africa, we were ready for insect warfare. We knew that we would be traveling in a malaria zone, and so in addition to malaria medication we had the insect warfare equivalent of a thermonuclear bomb. We had REI “Jungle Juice,” with 100-percent active ingredient (DEET) and had been carrying it with us ever since we left California. Funny thing is we didn’t really need it in Tanzania. We were there in the dry season, and there just wasn’t much of an insect problem. Five months later in Drago, and what I wouldn’t give for a bottle of Jungle Juice. No-see-ums are tinier than a flea and mightier than a mosquito, able to withstand Deep Woods Off! with a single breath.
Drago was almost everything we could hope for in a reality escape. Unfortunately, the no-see-ums drove us mad. The folklore is that the no-see-ums only bite newcomers and leave you alone after a month or two. We couldn’t wait that long and did a Ctrl+Alt+Delete.
As we were to depart Bocas and make our way to Panama City, we happened upon one of the homemade candy bars made by Frankie, Neil the Pirate’s neighbor, at the airport café. We bought one and it felt hefty in our hands. The candy bar was wrapped in an odd-shaped piece of aluminum foil that had been torn from a roll, and the outer packaging was plain white paper that Frankie had clearly printed on his own laser print
er and then taped with good ol’ Scotch tape.
We were eager to taste it. I mean, we were looking at homemade chocolate where the beans were grown on a tropical island and roasted on the spot, and made with milk that was milked that very morning by hand. It’s gotta be good, right?
September took one bite of the chocolate, got a horrified look on her face, and spit it out in her hand. It was as dry as chalk and tasted like burnt ashes mixed with sand. The reality of making one’s own chocolate directly from home-harvested beans was not up to the romance of it. It was a perfect metaphor for living the alternate lifestyle in paradise: Things aren’t always what they seem and it’s what you can’t see that will drive you mad.
• • •
Before we left California we had purchased several flight segments for our trip: San Francisco to London, Istanbul to Tanzania, Tanzania to Japan, Hong Kong to Bangkok, then Bangkok to Costa Rica. Many of those segments had meaningful layovers, such as Mauritius between Tanzania and Japan. Now that we were in Central America our itinerary was like the blank pages of a new diary: We had no more pre-purchased flight segments.
“We’ve been looking forward to moving at a slower pace,” I said to the kids as we arrived in Panama City. “Now we can have that. We won’t have to rush through a place in order to catch our next flight, because we have no next flight.”
We settled into Panama City while we were making plans for South America. There were lots of things we wanted to see and do there—visit Machu Picchu and the Amazon Basin to name just a few. The Straits of Magellan and Torres del Paine at the southern tip of the continent were both considered musts. We wanted to savor the experience, which for us meant to go overland as much as possible.
While we prepared to go south, I took the chance to enroll in a three-day intensive course in Spanish. Granny had brought us Spanish lessons on an MP3 player when she visited for Christmas, but this was unsatisfactory; when we needed the phrase for say, buying bus tickets, we had to search for a file somewhere in a device the size of a cigarette lighter. Finding the exact phrase when at the ticket counter was really frustrating.
