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Man’s Best FriendCosta Rica was eating our lunch, chewing through our budgets like so many rusty machetes of the country’s poor subsistence farmers. We had decided to get out of there quick, but we’d make one last week long trek around the Osa Peninsula, which National Geographic calls “the most biologically intense place on the planet.” We would take the backdoor route, entering via river through the river port of Sierpe, passing through Drake Bay and Corcovado National Park, and exiting by ferry from Puerto Jiminez. We bought a week’s worth of provisions in Sierpe, pushing our packs to well over 70 pounds, stretching the straps and stitching to their limits. For a trek of this scale, a pack weight of 30 pounds would have been reasonable. We were in the middle of rainy season, which made it off season by driving away the tourists, leaving the peninsula devoid of touristas. After exposing the local price fixing scam for boat fare perpetrated upon tourists, we secured local fare for passage down the river, less than half of the scam price quoted to touristas. The river meandered through Central America’s largest protected mangrove forest, supported high above the water by a massive triangular root structured base. As we rounded a bend of towering mangroves, the Pacific opened in front of us, waves and river clashing, Isla Cano visible miles off shore. We entered the surf and made our way along the coast, passing through boulder formations with gaps just wide enough for the boat, waves and salty foam crashing and swirling around us. We were dropped off at Drake Bay, and we immediately set out, hoping to make camp before the certain afternoon downpour. In half an hour it became all too obvious that we were packing entirely too much weight, both for ourselves and for the packs. Every step sent lizards darting for cover. Tree climbing hermit crabs devoured clustered fruit, bright red and purple jungle crabs withdrew into their holes, parrots squawked overhead, tree frogs occasionally chirped their song. Several troops of white faced capuchin monkeys made it abundantly clear that they did not appreciate our trespass. One of those troops descended upon us with a fury, screaming and throwing shit. Honestly, we were spooked and for a while, weren’t sure if we could get past them without violence. We grabbed some heavy sticks and rocks, reminded ourselves that we were humans and they were monkeys, and pushed through their blockade, glancing over our shoulders every few steps protecting our rear. With one of those glances came the realization that one of the monkeys had dropped to the trail and was chasing us, leading the charge, as his troop followed in the trees. Yes, we were freaked, and then, in the same moment, a seven foot, purple snake took off from under our feet. It was automatic really. Our feet left the ground and we made 50 meters in under three seconds. We stopped a few minutes later to collect ourselves, and some heavier sticks, and continued. Not much time had passed when a huge Rotweiller stepped into the trail ahead of us, and stood, and stared, and waited for us. We tested our upgraded sticks against some trees and yelled at the beast to scare it off, but it didn’t budge. We pressed forward, trying to suppress any scent of fear escaping the overpowering rank of our clothes. When we reached the dog, it began wagging its tail stump and slobbering all over us. We noticed that its right eye had been gashed useless, probably from a jungle cat we thought. The one-eyed Rot joined us and would become our companion for the remainder of our journey, sleeping in our camp, eating with us and serving as the penultimate guard dog, driving off every animal in the jungle, which wasn’t exactly what we wanted, but we didn’t complain. We would come to discover later that her name was Selva, Spanish for Jungle, and that she was well known to peninsula residents. After two and a half hours, we had to stop, making camp on the grassy banks of a rocky Pacific peninsula jutting into the sea. We ate wild mangos, washed ourselves in tidal pools, built a perfect fire from driftwood and tossed and turned all night in the humid heat. Late in the night, a sulfuric stench permeated the tent. I told Brian that if he did that again, he would be sleeping outside, but he assured me that it was not his work. Turns out, Selva had gotten hold of some specie of skunk during the night, and its suffocating spray would hover in our camp well into the following morning. The following morning found us weary from the burden of our packs and our utter lack of meaningful rest. We tried to sleep late, but the morning sun transformed the tent into a sauna, making sleep impossible. So, we broke camp and set out. Several more troops of monkeys launched their aerial assaults of fruit and shit…Brian got tagged! We saw and heard several pairs of scarlet macaws and loads of other fantastic life forms that I simply don’t know the names for. We crossed a chest-high river, ferrying our packs across in an abandoned kayak, and on its opposite banks, met a man who had lived in a Robinson Crusoe setup for thirty years. Selva traveled with us every step of the way, and at some point, a black lab joined our caravan. After two hours, we realized just what a huge mistake we had made trying to pack so much weight for such a large distance. Our tent had broken through the straps on Brian’s pack, and all seams and stitching were being stretched precariously close to their breaking points. We had already trekked so far that hiking back was a painful course of action, to be avoided by all means. We finally came upon an “eco-lodge” owned by a Costa Rican family. We could go no further…the packs were killing us. The lodge was empty. Its name explicitly implied that it was friendly to budget travelers, Poor Man’s Paradise to be exact. Sorry, this just was not the case. In short, it was a rip off, but the only rip off in that desolate corner of the world. The woman in charge asked us if the dogs were ours and we told her that they were not, that they had been following us and that there was nothing we could do about it. She knew the dogs and couldn’t stand them, which made us wonder why she asked if they belonged to us in the first place. She hated those dogs to be precise, saying they were trouble makers and that if they were to cause any damage to the premises, that she would be holding us responsible. We thought they were cute. We tried to negotiate some sort of middle ground with the woman on pricing, figuring that some money for an empty lodge was better than none, but she would have none of it. I politely questioned her policy of offering musty tents for $5 per day, while simultaneously requiring the purchase of three meals daily at an additional cost of $30 per day, especially considering the fact that we had broken our backs and packs hauling in a week’s worth of food. This got her going and she launched her attack. Keeping my cool (yes, really), we then asked why, to simply pitch a tent on her lawn, she charged more than Corcovado National Park. In a fit of rage, she explained that her “eco-lodge” provided toilet paper and that travelers never had toilet paper. We explained to her that we had brought our own toilet paper, a week’s worth. At such a price, we asked, would it not be a better deal to just make camp on the beach, free by Costa Rican statute. Her answer was that people camping on the desolate stretch of public access beach anywhere near her “lodge” mysteriously get their stuff stolen, but that people who camp on her lawn, twenty feet away, enjoy the security provided by her staff. I have never taken well to threats, no matter how veiled…so I felt compelled to begin rationally questioning every aspect of her insane pricing policies. This sent her into a mad frenzy in which she attacked our character, the character of Americans and the character of all gringos in general, ultimately blaming her business woes on the unreasonable desire of gringos for a reasonable deal. She also informed us that the northern coast of Corcovado National Park was closed, as it was every rainy season, due to the inevitable deaths of hikers trying to cross the swollen rivers. This small fact, throughout all our many previous inquiries, no one had bothered to mention. We confirmed this to be the case days later. So, there we were dealing with a bitch of the highest caliber, and she had us over a barrel. We couldn’t go forward to the ranger station because it was closed, and the only way out was a supply boat that wouldn’t be arriving to her lodge for a week. Believe it or not, I can’t stand being stuck in those situations with no recourse and no firepower. The dogs were tearing through her manicured lawn, driving her crazy. She screamed at them to leave, but they were just having too much fun thrashing her flowerbeds and terrorizing her puny little “lodge dogs.” She warned us again about the behavior of “our” dogs and left in a huff, telling us to hurry up and make a decision, and dropping a few final veiled threats about camping on the beach. Brian and I were ticked...exhausted…and stuck…with two very unappealing options: pay her extortion prices for a week until the supply boat came or head back on foot with our overweight packs. We sat there in her tidy little hammock-strung, tile-floored cabana, scratching our heads, at a loss, not wanting to give in, but not sure if we could make it back on foot. Enter the dogs. Good ole Selva and her black lab playmate. As we struggled with the inevitable, a horrifying sound rose up from the inner depths of the black lab, followed by a nice thick puddle of the most excellent dog puke ever to grace that peninsula, right on that pretty little mosaic floor! Brian and I looked at each other in disbelief, our eyes went wide and our jaws dropped open, and then we almost fell from our chairs from laughing so hard! The decision had been made for us…we would be heading back. We threw on our packs and headed towards the beach, smiling and trying to suppress our laughter. We passed the bitch and wished her a lovely afternoon. It could have only been more perfect had we been able to see the look on her face upon discovering the gift left for her by the lab. Still, as beautiful as the doggie vomit was, we were faced with two more days of backtracking our overweight packs, something we really didn’t want to do. We trudged on, praying for a miracle, and lo and behold, it appeared, in the form of a boat dropping off supplies to another “eco-lodge”. I dropped my pack and jumped into the surf, frantically making a deal with the captain for passage back to Sierpe. He stuck it to us, but we didn’t mind. We threw in our packs and pushed the boat through the chest high surf, beyond the crashing waves into deeper water. We were exhausted and soaking wet, but we had been granted salvation and were nothing but thankful. As the boat pulled away from the beach, Selva tried to swim after us...it was a sad farewell. On the return voyage, crossing Drake Bay, a group of dolphins surrounded our boat, darting and jumping and swimming alongside. We witnessed this in Utila, and it was every bit as magical the second time around. There is just something about the spirit of those beautiful creatures that reaches straight into your soul and cries for peace and harmony on this planet. The sky grew dark and the afternoon downpour hit our open air boat as we made our way through a twisted maze of mangrove shortcuts. I was already soaked, so I took off my shirt. The rain was cold and the speed of the boat made it colder. The driving pellets of rain bit the flesh and my back was cramping from the prior days’ pack weight. Shivering, I closed my eyes and entered the deepest meditative state I have yet experienced. The back cramps released, straightening the spine. Body temperature rose and the shivering subsided. It was an incredible hour of sensation, peace and serenity. One last adventure in Costa Rica indeed. |