Wild Blue Ponder
Costa Rica
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Ma x and Liddy have spent a lot of time in Costa Rica, they even learned a little Spanish - Liddy learned a lot of Spanish. Max wrote two Bismark Pacheco novels set in Costa Rica. Max wrote some stories also - they will appear on this page.

Hot link - Jay Brodell's A.M. Costa Rica - amcostarica.com 

Page Contents:

1. Turrialba 2. The Temptress 3. Cinco Punta Dos 4. Sin Sprint 5. A Little Something For the Kids. 6. Viernes de Trece 7. Nailed in Santa Elena

 

 

TURRIALBA

Only 700 miles north of the equator, snow is never seen on the 10 and 12,000 foot peaks, not a few resting volcanoes, marking the spine of Costa Rica. This unique republic, smaller than West Virginia and about as close to heaven, is caught between the Pacific Ocean and the Caribbean Sea just 130 miles east. And so it is that whether the winds blow from the east or from the west they bring rain to Turrialba, the bustling little pueblo of some 10,000 gente, nestled 2,000 feet above sea level among the bright green eastern slopes of the cordillera de Talamanca, 40 miles due east of San José, the capital ciudad, and about the same distance from Limón, the Caribbean port city to the east. If you are asked to provide a container to measure the annual rainfall in Turrialba, look for one at least eight and a half feet high. But they also get lots of sunshine in Turrialba, and the year-round average temperature is a comfortable 72. On the coastal plain to the east the average temperature is 79 and the annual rainfall is 145 inches, a good 100 inches more than most of the Estados Unidos sees in a year. When it was suggested to two young Canadians studying watershed management at El Centro Agronomico Tropical de Investigacion  y Enseñanza (CATIE) near Turrialba, that Costa Rica could profit by shipping water to California and other thirsty parts of the world, the young man liked the idea, but the young lady thought otherwise, noting that she too knew something about watershed management. It does not take an expert to realize that any water that does not sink into the rich soil soon finds its way to the wild Rio Reventazón rushing through the valley to its cita with the Caribbean Sea. White water rafting is an attraction for adventurous tourists.

            The wondrous beauty of the vast Turrialba Valley stems from the shades of green that stretch into the distance, and from the universe of blue sky shielded by a perpetual 60% cloud cover. A gathering of white puffy clouds blows across the tree-covered hills causing an arresting array of moving shadows interrupted by bright green patches when shafts of light from the sun find an opening in the clouds. These hills are also sprinkled with homes giving a sense of enchantment at night when hundreds, perhaps thousands of lights, haloed by raindrops, sparkle and twinkle all over the hillsides.

            Paco and I were standing on the sidewalk in front of Turrialba's best hotel, the Wagelia, watching hearing, and smelling the big flatbed trucks with their neatly stacked 100 pound bags of cement, begin to belch clouds of diesel exhaust as the drivers shifted down and gunned their engines beginning the two mile climb through the clouds to the rim of the valley, 2,000 feet above on their way to San José. Paco had been a celebrity in Turrialba 20 years ago when he was a star fútbol player. Now he drives a 1986 red Chevrolet taxi from 6A.M. until 5P.M. and mostly drinks cerveza the rest of the time as you could tell from the profile of his amplio vientre. Paco was swarthy in a friendly way and he shaved on Tuesday and Friday. Paco had lived up north with the gringos for six years and spoke passable English. But Turrialba was his home and people he didn't even know often called out Hola, Paco! as he passed in his red taxi. When this happened he would smile and shake his head. "They remember me from fútbol," he would say.

            "Paco," I asked, "what is the name of this street?" Paco looked at me curiously, wrinkled his brow and scratched his chin. "Wait a minute," he said, and walked into the lobby of the Wagelia to consult with Joel, the reception desk clerk and Jorge the waiter. It was a short consultation. Paco skipped down the few steps and said, "Nobody knows."

            The streets have no names in Turrialba. Is there postal delivery? Yes, the postman knows where everyone lives. But Turrialba is not hopelessly provincial. Not at all, consider the Nuevo Hong Kong Restaurante. So what if the fried rice tastes like gallo pinto?  Then there is the annual International Feria at CATIE. It is mostly food booths featuring regional specialties, but there is also music and dancing from many of the Latin countries, also games and pony rides for children of all ages. The Estados Unidos  boothe sells Juicy Fruit chewing gum and Perros Caliente with mostaza. The european booth is very popular with its German pastry and super rich helados.

            At one time, not too long ago, Turrialba was one of about 30 stops on the train line connecting San José with Limón. El tren doesn't run anymore because some of the tracks washed away and it doesn't seem worth the trouble to replace them. It was a pleasant coal-burning train that after a trip made you feel like telling somebody about it  One late November day in 1989 Liddy and me got up very early at the Wagelia (early enough to beat the fire station horn that blasts the town awake at 6 A.M. every day except Domingo), and for 90 cents, rode the train from Turrialba to Sequieres, a town about 30 miles east and down the mountain. You shouldn't be in a hurry, the trip took four hours. I couldn't help thinking of the Toonerville Trolley and the Little Engine That Could. The train crept up, down, and around the steep grades, providing breath-catching views of the raging Rio de Reventazón before descending to the coastal plain where the river relaxed and the thrills diminished accordingly. Liddy and me were uneasy because our grip on el Español lengua was shaky at best, and we wondered aloud how we would know when we reached Sequires. Not to worry. The friendly Ticos crowded around us when we approached the town and you didn't have to know Spanish to understand what they were telling us- "this is it." They must have been reading our minds.         

 

 

THE TEMPTRESS

          Liddy  and me have been on dry land for more than 24 hours, but when we sit still or lie down, we still feel the swaying and rolling sensation that was not imagination when we cruised the west coast of Costa Rica aboard the barque Temptress these past six days. The Temptress, called the boat by Alex, our young cruise director, is 174 feet long, 38 feet wide, and is equipped to handle 62 passengers comfortably with 33 air conditioned staterooms, each with sink, shower, toilet, and two beds. On our cruise there were 31 passengers, and it was very comfortable. The Temptress is an all-Costa Rican operation, from owner to crew.

          On the first day, Saturday, January 9, we were transported by van from San Jose, the capitol city, to Puntarenas (English: sandy point), the major port city on the west coast. The trip along the winding, narrow Pan-American highway, took us from the mountains to the sea, and lasted about two hours. We boarded the Temptress, and by 6:30 were having dinner in the grand salon while sailing up the Gulf of Nicoya toward Chira Island and the Palo Verde National Park.

           What we didn't know at the time was that we were on the verge of developing a new and apparently genuine interest in bird watching. This did not come as a complete surprise since we had recently obtained a copy of A Guide to the Birds of Costa Rica, which it now appears is a highly understated title. If they didn't want to call it a complete guide, by our experience they were surely justified in calling it a detailed guide. In the last seven days we have identified over 60 birds, every one is in the book, and every one looks and acts exactly as pictured and described in the book. Whether our interest turns out to be a passing fancy or a paradigm shift remains to be seen, but here today at CATIE, on our very own, without the help of the superb Temptress naturalist, Juan José Apéstegui, we have identified 8 birds, including the Montezuma Oropendola (no kidding, page 406, plate 44). So we shall see.

          Early Sunday morning we left the Temptress anchored near Chira Island, and motor-boated three hours up the Tempisque River to Palo Verde National Park. On the way we were dazzled by the Magnificent Frigatebird (page 79, plate 1), the Roseate Spoonbill (page 90, plate 4), and the Bare-throated Tiger Heron (page 82, plate5). We passed Bird Island where hundreds of Woodstorks and Neotropical Cormorants were nesting. For the day we saw 22 different species, including a large flock of Black-bellied Whistling Ducks rummaging along a sand bar. We also saw crocodiles, howler monkeys, and several different colored iguanas perched in the trees above the river. When we stopped for lunch at Rancho Humo we walked a short nature trail through the mangrove trees close to the river and were rewarded with a long and close-up view, thanks to Juan's sharp eyes and tripodded telescope, of a Turquoise-browed Motmot (page 242, plate 27) with its two large blue tail racquets on naked rails swinging slowly back and forth like a pendulum.

          We returned to the ship about 4 P.M., and after the usual 6:30 dinner we were shuttled to the beach on Chira Island for a bonfire and marshmallow roast. The crew tried to entertain us with some plum awful music that was really nothing more than drum-beating and miracha shaking. The guitar player even gave up and used his guitar as a drum. The singing was so off key it was actually funny. There were a few half-hearted attempts at dancing that quickly petered out after some ill planned stumbling around and a bit of arm waving. We returned to the ship and left the shelter of the Gulf for the open Pacific and a restless sleep during the seven hour cruise down the coast to Playa Manuel Antonio, our next stop.

          Monday morning Liddy and me, along with Ray Erickson, a Sacramento social worker, and Hernan the fishmaster, left the ship at 6:30 in a small but powerful sportfishing boat for a try at deep sea fishing. We trolled about 10 miles out until returning to the ship about 11:30. Final score: fish-7, fishermen 0, and one seasick old fart who should have known better. But things improved in the afternoon after a nice lunch on the white sands of Playa Manuel Antonio complete with an audience of white-faced monkeys eager for a handout.

          After lunch we hiked into the National Park with Juan José who spotted a three-toed sloth languishing high in the forest canopy, a small dog-sized rodent called an agouti feeding on the forest floor, and a troop of squirrel monkeys swinging through the trees. We also saw seven new birds including a Pale-billed Woodpecker with a brilliant red head, a Black-hooded Antshrike, and the Costa Rican national bird, the Clay-colored Robin. The dull Robin seems a curious choice for this distinction given the incredible variety of other colorful and exotic birds available, but the book tells us that the song of the Robin is said by local people to call the rains, which is obviously more important than a pretty face and red feathers.

          On Tuesday morning we were anchored about 20 miles down the coast off Drake's Bay where we went ashore for another nature hike. Before the day was over we had added 16 birds to our list including the spectacular Scarlet Macaw with its red, blue, and yellow feathers, and its raucous cry, a Laughing Falcon, and a Red-lored Parrot. The crew showed they could play soccer better than they could sing when they defeated a team from the town of Drake's Bay 1-0 in what looked to me like a pretty well-played game. We also snorkeled and sea-kayaked off Caletas Beach and ate dinner at a rustic little restaurant overlooking the beach. The town of Drake's Bay has no road connection to the rest of the country so the only way to get there is by boat or small plane.

          Wednesday, January 13, 1993- Corcovado National Park on the Osa Peninsula, not too far from the Panama border in extreme southwest Costa Rica, and also accessible only by boat or the same grass landing strip that serves Drake's Bay. The tourist guide books tell us that Corcovado is the best example of unspoiled tropical rainforest in all of Costa Rica, and they must be right, the forest is awesome with its soaring Ficus trees, massive buttress roots, and endless vines and lianas that would make Tarzan drool. We saw a Violaceous Trogon, a Red-capped Manakin, and a Bright-rumped Attila. We saw flocks of screaching parakeets streaking across the sky in places where the trees gave way to grassy clearings. We heard the shrill, resonant kREEK and yo-YIP of the Chestnut-mandibled Toucan, but were not lucky enough to see one. We saw blue-winged damsel flies that looked like small helicopters in flight. After leaving the park we passed through an abandoned grove of cocoa trees and I began to wonder what it would take to make it profitable. Liddy said, "Don't even think about it."

          We arrived at Caño Island after a short sunset cruise. Juan José has been talking about the green flash of light visible on the horizon at the very moment that the last red slice of sun drops below. We have had horizon clouds block the view and so have not seen it. Wait till next year. But at eight degrees north latitude we did see the Southern Cross, a constellation of four stars, rise majestically over Caño Island. A lot of water has passed under the bridge since I last saw the Southern Cross in December, 1955 while transiting the Palawan Passage enroute from Manila to Singapore.  It was a month before I met Liddy. It is nice to see it so well preserved, even though a little cockeyed. The other stars are still there too, uncountable as always.

          Thursday was our last day. We hiked a 300 foot climb to the plateau of Caño Island which the Costa Rican government has designated a Biological Reserve. No one lives on the island except a Ranger and one volunteer. In 1973 the Costa Rican government signed a contract with an American company to turn the island into a theme park to be called Jurassic Park, but environmentalists protested so vehemently that the government relented and cancelled the contract. We walked in rain for the first time, but found artifacts left by Brunca Indians in pre-Columbian times. You can see these faces carved on rocks in a San José museum, but to pick them up on Caño Island for a really close look is something special. And so was the entire cruise.

 

 

         

                                      CINCO PUNTA DOS

 

          On Thursday Liddy and me were watching Blue-gray Tanagers, White-lined Tanagers, and an occasional Rufous-tailed Hummingbird, while having afternoon tea with Andre and Marguerita Helfenberger next to their exquisite formal garden at their coffee farm a mile or so above the Turrialba valley floor when the earth shuddered briefly. It was our first earthquake, but from the initial sensation we knew instantly what it was. Andre and Marguerita immediately jumped to their feet, but it was over so fast they quickly sat down again until Roseo, the young serving girl came running in tears to be comforted by Marguerita. Andre said it wasnt even strong enough to slosh water out of the swimming pool, but only minutes later Liddy pointed out that small tides were still flowing in the pool. Marguerita was worried about her Mother in San José, 50 miles away, who like Roseo, did not take these things well. Costa Rica is about the size of West Virginia, and Andre said it was probably felt all over the country.  He told us this was merely a temblor, a tremor, nothing like the terremoto (earthquake) which had done so much damage in the country two years ago. The Friday morning edition of La Nacion had a short but informative article on page eight with a map showing dual epicenters, about eight miles south of Turrialba, with Richter grades of 4.4 and 4.3. They called it a strong tremor; no damage was reported.

          Two days later, an hour after I had returned to CATIE from taking Liddy to the airport in San José, I was sitting at the dining room table looking out the window of our second floor apartment when the building began to shake. It began slowly but rapidly accelerated to the point where it was shaking so violently I said to myself, and I quote, "If this continues, the building will collapse," whereupon the shaking stopped; it lasted no more than five seconds. I got up to survey the damage. A lamp had fallen off a table but did not break. A bedside table had fallen over, dumping a clock radio to the floor. The ceramic commode top had broken in half when it hit the floor, which was covered with water that had sloshed from the toilet bowl. The electricity was off. Nothing more.  I noticed that the radio station I had been listening to was off the air. It was a battery powered radio.  I spun the dial searching for other stations; nothing. I heard a siren wail in the distance. I went outside. It was quiet except for the noisy sound of water bouncing against terazzo after falling from the second floor balcony; a pipe had broken up there somewhere. Nobody was around. CATIE was quiet. Tense. Waiting.

          The Sunday La Nacion arrived on schedule the next day. The front-page headline had it just rightTREMENDO SACUDON literally translated, one helluva shake. Richter cinco punta dos5.2. Joe Saunders' house is built on stilts and somehow it didn't fall down, but everything inside was scrambled like broken egg yolks. Jean Vincent Escalant is on vacation in France with his family so he doesn't know that when he returns he will find his house moved a few feet off its foundation and all the contents lying in rubble. Joe Saunders said the 1991 7.2 terremoto lasted 47 seconds, long enough to make you seasick watching the cars in the parking lot roll, but this little temblor did more damage to his house and scared him a lot more. The 1991 epicenter was close to Limon, about 50 miles east on the Caribbean coast. Joe is nervous; for the last two nights he has been sleeping with his clothes on, and the first night after the shake he slept with his shoes on. He said that if he had any hair it would probably be standing on end.

          The next one I felt was three days later. It turned out to be only a 4.4, but it was enough to send Helga scurrying from the lab to find a sturdy door frame to stand under. Helga lives in a student apartment complex situated maybe 50 yards from the edge of a ravine that plunges steeply to the Rio Reventazon; rows of 150 feet high Laurel trees line the top of the gorge. During the night another 4.4 hit around 2 A.M., or so I was told-it takes more than a 4.4 to wake me up, and Helga said she heard the crashing of trees tumbling into the ravine. She also said that in the morning she saw 10 Toucans in some of the remaining trees, loudly complaining about the loss of some of their favorite landing spots.

          The Tuesday La Nacion headlined a 7.8 terremoto in Japan. Are we to take comfort that the ones here are not so bad? Or what? The Wednesday La Nacion told us that the National University of Costa Rica Volcano and Seismology Observatory has registered 710 Earth flutters since last Thursday, and that we are experiencing a wave of seismic events that will probably continue for another two weeks.

          So. Here we are, wondering what's next, while radio station effay emmay noventa seis continues to play Beethoven's Pastoral, and the sweet oboes and clarinets in the second movement give us their usual sense of calm and well-being.

 

At CATIE, July 14, 1993, 10 P.M.

 

 

                                         SIN  SPRINT

 

"Loo, we should maybe call the kids back in Philly, and, you know, let 'em know what's goin' on down here. We been gone already a couple weeks, and maybe they're wonderin' what happened and all, you know what I mean?"

            I tell Liddy I'm not too crazy about the idea. They got Wilber's number and if they don't call it means that maybe the worst thing that's happened is it snowed or somethin. And they know by now that if they don't hear anything there ain't no bad news, and besides you sent them post cards with Toucans and al,l so they know we're in Costa Rica. And another besides, I saw the other day in this Costa Rican newspaper where the Sixers are now 14-30 which means they don't win a game since we left so what is the point?

Liddy says, "Right, Loo, so I'm gonna call anyway."

            Now is when the fun starts because before we left Philly Liddy made sure we had a calling card from SPRINT which got our long-distance business last Summer with some kind of fancy deal which Liddy figured we couldn't turn down. The trouble is, Liddy told them we wanted to have a card for overseas calls, but they didn't get the idea we wanted to call from Costa Rica to the U.S. instead of the other way around, and it turns out SPRINT has no access lines from CR which means you can't call the U.S. from here with a SPRINT card. If you know any Spanish at all you will know what I mean if I tell you Costa Rica is a country Sin Sprint which Liddy will not see the joke if I tell her this now. Anyway, Liddy has at last found a good reason why we should switch back to AT&T which they been tryin' to convince us we should do for the past six months, maybe more. I got an idea Liddy is really gonna be steamed when she finds out they charged her for the call from CR to SPRINT where she asks why she can't get through on her calling card.

But before you get the idea we are stuck here in this mas o menos (it means more or less) country, where they speak more Spanish than not, without a long distance line to Philadelphia, don't forget we are staying at Andre and Margarita Helfenbergers coffee finca four hundred meters above Turrialba, which is already six or seven hundred meters above sea level. Down here you probably noticed they speak in meters instead of feet which most of the world does anyway I once heard. But anyway, Andre Helfenberger is a guy who has been around the world three times, mas o menos, and once worked in Morocco for two years out of Casablanca, not to mention trips to Guatemala, Brazil, the Philippines, the Great Wall of China, and more places than you wanna hear about, I can tell you. So not only does Andre have a long distance phone line to Philadelphia he also has a FAX line and E-mail, and has discovered the INTERNET which he thinks could have saved him some trouble a few years ago although he don't think it would have helped him in his fight over hybrid cocoa seeds out of CATIE, but that's a whole other story which Andre will tell you a few times if you don't look out.

But Andre is a good and generous soul who, by the way, speaks Arabic and God knows how many others, and when he sees Liddy griping about SPRINT he says, "Liddy, do not fret, it is Saturday even in Costa Rica so just pick up this cordless phone and call Philadelphia in the usual way using the 001 country code, and do not think anymore about it since if you do not talk forever will not mean we are that much poorer after you finish."  So Liddy, who knows a good deal when she sees it, gives me a "What can I do?" and dials up Katie just like that. But then Liddy gets all mixed up trying to find which phone numbers she wants to give Katie when we go to Selva Verde and El Rancho Corcovado Lodge next week which Liddy thinks they need to know where we are, just in case.

So I pick up the phone and begin to tell Katie what a rotten time we are having here in Costa Rica. About how bad are the roads in the middle of the Nicoya Peninsula and how hot it is there with all that sunshine which sometimes makes it hard to see the Magpie Jays and the Scissor-tailed Flycatchers.  We also go to the beach at Samara, I tell her, which is okay, with the rolling surf and the long curved sandy beach and all, but they don't even have any picnic tables under the palm trees so we have to sit on the sand and you know what a mess that can be, I tell her. Also Liddy has to go into the bushes to pee which I don't even want to talk about.  Katie is looking out on a cold, gray, February day in Pennsylvania so can sympathize with all this misery.

When I start complaining about how cold is the water in Andre's swimming pool, and that we have been here almost three days and only seen a few Scarlet-rumped Tanagers and only one Toucan, Katie, who has a sharp ear for these things, interrupts to ask is there any chance we maybe don't come back at all. I cover the phone a minute and tell Liddy what Katie is asking but Liddy says tell Katie we're coming back all right because she has a few things up her sleeve she wants to get off her chest to them SPRINT people. They will not get off the hook so easy.

 

Max Blue

at Andre Helfenbergers finca 400 meters above Turrialba February 7, 1998

 

                    A LITTLE SOMETHING FOR THE KIDS

 

          The eight German tourists, tightly packed into the large white Toyota van, drew in their collective breaths, and became very quiet as they watched the driver settle into his seat and light a cigarette. Cesar Romero switched on the engine, jammed down the clutch, threw the vehicle into gear, and lurched onto the highway in front of his Rancho Corcovado Lodge near the Arenal Volcano somewhere near the middle of Costa Rica. As quickly as he could get into high gear, with the help of an agile left knee to steady the wheel, he exceeded the speed limit in his hurry to get the touristos to the Caño Negro Biological Reserve, close to the Nicaraguan frontier, 50 miles away. What got the touristos attention was that Señor Romero only had one arm. It would have been small comfort for them to know than Don Cesar has been doing this sort of thing for almost 30 years, ever since he was sideswiped by an overtaking vehicle when he was driving with his left arm propped on the open window. One minute the arm was there, the next it was gone, Don Cesar tells the story with a rueful smile.

          Don Cesar has always been a high-risk sort of guy. The accident ended his airline pilot career, but he soon discovered to his surprise, that he had a talent for making money, probably not inherited from his father who was a Costa Rican cocoa farmer for more than 70 years. Don Cesar went to Mississippi to buy a truck, and after driving it back to Costa Rica, sold it for a nice profit. He returned to Mississippi and bought two trucks. And so it went. Two years ago he opened the Rancho Corcovado Lodge, five miles from Arenal, the most active volcano in the world, and one of the fastest growing tourist areas in Costa Rica. Just after sunset, he likes to load his van, at $10 a head, and take the curious to the very slopes of the volcano where there is a good chance they will feel the ground tremble, hear the roar of an eruption, and see sparks and fire in the night sky. Is it dangerous? Of course it's dangerous, but one who stood in awe as warm ash began to fall, said to his companion, "I think we'd better get out of here," then, as he looked back at the towering, cone-shaped volcano, cried, "Do it again!"

          The Rancho Corcovado is a family business daughter Agnes and her gringo (from Brooklyn) husband Sonny run the restaurant. Agnes went to school in the U.S., graduating from Livingston State College in Alabama. She and Sonny, along with their one and three-year old children, came home last year when things got tough in Brooklyn. Now Agnes has stories to tell about the clients from all over the world who come to her table knowing how to order a beer, but not scrambled eggs. She can say thank you in German and Japanese. She complains about long hours, and a shortage of thrills. "The biggest thing around here," she says, "is to take your date to the volcano."

          Don Cesar laughs a lot these days, and can hardly contain his joy when the little ones come to sit on his lap. In all directions around the rancho you can see healthy green stands of cassava plants, evidence of a thriving export business, mostly to Estados Unidos. He lights another cigarette, sighs contentedly, and says, "I will work for a few more years, and then turn everything over to the kids."

 

          At Hacienda Los Inocentes, in the Guanacaste region of north Costa Rica, only 15 miles from Nicaragua, high on a short list of things to do, is sitting in a rocking chair on the open-air deck watching cloud formations shift across the top of the Orosi Volcano, five miles away. Except along the river, the landscape in mid-April, shortly before the rainy season begins, is bleak shades of brown stretching for miles. Sad to think this was once Ficus and Eucalyptus forest. The wind is almost violent, and it blows all night. 

          Also near the top of the list is hearing the stories of people from far away places. George, "Just call me Bing", Cherry, is from Tecumseh, Ontario, not too far from Toronto, and he is disgusted with Canada. "Canada is a big giveaway", he snorts, "they just say, sure, come to Canada, we will take care of you. So what happens? Everybody who can't make it in other parts of the world comes to Canada for a handout. And who pays for it? People like me."

           Bing Cherry is Vice President of a Bulk Waterborne Freight Company with a fleet of ships on the Great Lakes. This is his second trip to Costa Rica. Last year, he and his new wife (they both have grown children from first marriages) spent a week on the beach at Tambor where the Gulf of Nicoya opens into the Pacific Ocean.

          Cherry stops to light a cigarette, and take three gulps from the Imperial he clutches in his left hand. "Can I buy you a beer?" he asks. "You wouldn't believe the taxes we have to pay to support the Canadian welfare state, and I'm sick of it."

          In the morning, Dennis Martinez has the horses saddled for a three-hour ride along the river trails, where we see spider monkeys, howler monkeys, and giant anteaters in the soaring canopy, along with Keel-billed Toucans, Elegant Trogons, and a Great Currasow, a large black bird with a yellow knob on its bill, and a crest that looks like a lady in hair curlers. Dennis has a sore back because his horse is not amused by the two dogs yapping at his heels, and kicks fruitlessly at his tormentors.  Dennis knows the monkeys he cups his hands over his mouth and produces a high-pitched yipping medley that brings curious and acrobatic spider monkeys scrambling through the trees. When Dennis spots a group of howler monkeys, he claps his hands loudly, bringing an immediate chorus of low-pitched hoots and howls from the agitated monkeys. The howlers fall silent, and stare in disbelief when Bing Cherry tries to imitate their hoots. 

          Heading for the barn, don Bing draws his horse alongside, and smiling happily says, "I really love this, you know. What I want to do is invest in some land down here, and start an export business. I could build it up, and have something nice to leave for my kids, and grandkids. You know what I mean?"

 

A map of Costa Rica looks like a big crab, the claw on the left is the Nicoya peninsula, the one on the right is the Osa peninsula in the south. The Pacific beaches of the Nicoya peninsula, 30 minutes by small aircraft, and 3 to 4 hours by car from the International airport near San José, are sprinkled with luxury hotels, to the dismay of environmentalists, and the delight of the Ministry of Tourism which promotes ecotourism, and beginning in 1993 saw income from tourism soar to near a billion dollars, passing banana exports as the number one source of foreign currency in the country. To drive to the beaches you can take the Pan-American highway to Liberia where you will see the most important four-way stop in Costa Rica, proved by the presence of a large Bomba (gas station) on each corner the usual suspects Texaco, Esso, Shell, and 76. While filling our tank, we noted the passing of a large white trailer-truck sporting the label, Pepperell Mills, West Point, Georgia. For a moment we thought we were back in Alabama. You can't get to the beaches from Liberia without passing through Filadelphia, but that takes only a minute. There is also a place called Vientesiete Abril (translation April 27th), so small that if you go through on April 14th as we did, you will not even know you passed through. What you mostly see here, in this very dry time of the year, is scrawny cattle nibbling on dusty scrubs, and evidence of cleared and burned sugar cane fields. Still, the land looks like it would flower with a few good rains, or maybe a good irrigation system.

            You can cut an hour or two off the ride from San José to the beaches by taking the Tempisque River ferry; the river flows south and widens into the Gulf of Nicoya. The ferry is big enough to hold three trailer-trucks, and about 20 cars. The trip costs $3, and takes about 20 minutes. Passengers leave their cars, and stand on catwalks or sit on benches above the main deck. You have to speak loudly to be heard above the rumble of the engines, and the squawks of the Gulls that ride free on the lead ramp.

          Overheard on the 11:30 ferry . . .

           "How long will you be here?"

           "We're going back tomorrow, we've been here a week. You live here?"

          "Yeah, I export ornamental flowers."

          "No kidding? How's business?"

          "Business is good. I have 15 acres of private beach; it's for my kids, you know."

 

          Costa Rica is a small country, about the size of West Virginia, and about as close to heaven; at its widest part it is only about 150 miles from the Caribbean Sea in the east to the Pacific Ocean in the west. The population of just over 3 million is about what you might see on an average day on the Schuylkill Expressway in Philadelphia.  From sea level at the eastern Tempisque river ferry landing to the Monteverde cloud forest at 5,000 feet is only about 50  miles, but let me tell you about the last 26 miles. How bad is this road? This road is so bad that chickens refuse to cross. This road is so bad that birds fly around it rather than over it. This road is so bad that at the top there are three muffler shops, two tire stores, and a junk yard for ruined cars. The mother of bad roads is the daughter of this road. So why do tourists brave this road to come to Monteverde? Not for the cheese, which is pretty good. Maybe for the chance of seeing the Resplendent Quetzal, or the Three-wattled Bellbird with its resounding gong that echoes through the forest, and startles you with its loudness if it settles in the canopy 100 feet overhead. Maybe it's for a stroll through the awesome cloud forest where you can hear, but not easily see, the Black-faced Solitaire with its song that sounds like a squeaky hinge or a rusty gate, but with style. On this trip we uncovered one of the best kept secrets of Monteverde the mating dance of the Long-tailed Manakin; the Quaker founders would be shocked. 

          Some people might come to Monteverde just to sit and watch the sun set. Perhaps on the deck of a cottage at the Sapo Dorado Lodge. Monteverde at one time was famous for Golden Toads, but nobody has seen one here for years. From the Sapo Dorado the view of the Nicoya Gulf and Peninsula 50 miles away is spectacular- it looks like a gigantic map of Costa Rica. There is also the night sky. On a clear night at Monteverde you can't count the stars, but you can see the Southern Cross, rising at its cockeyed angle in the southwestern sky, and Venus dotting the exclamation point of a crescent moon. One can feel at peace on nights like these.

          A man calling himself Gary breaks the peace. "Tell me about Costa Rica," he said. We first met this guy three days ago at Los Inocentes, and now here he is the Sapo Dorado. He is from Vancouver, Canada, and is here coupling a holiday with business. "I have this friend who is interested in buying some property here, and starting an export business He wants to do it for his kids."

 

          As we start the slow descent down the grandmother of bad roads, I am thinking out loud. "Maybe we should buy a cocoa farm, I'm sure we could make it profitable it would be kind of fun, and we could have something to leave to the kids."

          Liddy is silent. I steal a glance without turning my head. At last she speaks. "Why don't you just write A Little Something for the Kids?"

 

                                       VIERNES DE TRECE

 

          Liddy and me decided before we left Philly that one of the things we would do in Costa Rica was to ride the public buses if we wanted to get from one place to another, and we couldn't maybe catch a ride with a friend who might be headed that way. So after a couple weeks here we finally get our chance. It's the bus from Puerto Viejo de Sarapiqui (you'll just have to get used to these names) to Ciudad Quesado which as near as I can tell means Cheese City. In case you wondered what is meant by Viejo, which when you say it sounds like vee ay ho, just remember that instead of O.F.s which is what Liddy and me is in the U.S., down here in Tico-land we would be V.F.s if you get my drift. But we're gonna have to check with Liddy on some of this because she is the one who is in charge of talking this Spanish. Which reminds me to tell you that Viernes de Trece, pronounced vee air ness day tray say, which is the name of this story  means Friday the Thirteenth, I hope, which is to get ahead of the story because first I have to tell you about the bus trip from the old port near the Sarapiqui River to Cheese City on the way up the mountain about eighty kilometers away, and takes close to two and a half hours, and which actually takes place on Wednesday the eleventh whatever that means. The big news on this trip is after a couple hours I notice there is this lady hanging on to a pipe who is standing behind the driver ever since we start though she had plenty of chances to sit down, and I wonder to Liddy  if it is his wife or maybe his girlfriend since every so often she leans over and says something in his ear and with his left hand, while keeping his right hand on the wheel, he reaches back and gives her a nice little pat on the back somewhere. Liddy shakes her head like she knows about things like this and says, "I't aint his wife, Loo."

          So after staying two nights at el Rancho Corcovado Lodge run by our old friend, the one-armed don Cesar Romero who is so excited about the recent elections he can hardly talk except to say there will be no more bribes taken at Los Chiles to let the Nicaraguan refugees in, we pack up everything and stand by the road in a light rain waiting for the bus coming from La Fortuna which you can probably guess what it means, and which they will need plenty of if they don't want the Arenal Volcano to come crashing down on them some day since they are closer to this Volcano than it looks like a good idea to be, if you know what I mean.  You maybe guessed by now it is Friday the thirteenth and Liddy and me are looking at an all-day bus trip and wondering what's gonna happen when we get to San José and need to find the bus station for Turrialba.  It's always a worry when you're doin' somethin you never did before, especially when half the time you don't have any  idea what people are talking about although like I said, Liddy is better than me at this by a long shot.

          Maybe it will help if I try to explain the geography here which is why we have to do all this bus-changing and trying to keep track of our big suitcase which has to be put in the luggage compartment underneath the bus, and has Liddy all tensed up because she don't like the idea of this suitcase being someplace she cant see it.  If this gets too complicated you are lucky because you don't have to read it but I still have to write it. Anyway, when we get back to Cheese City which will take an hour and a half we have to get an express bus for San José.  Now let me tell you how the bus system works here on this side of the mountain before I get back to the geography.  The bus door is open so you just get on, take a seat, and wait for the bus to fill up and then it will leave. After the bus is underway a helper comes around and collects your dough- they don't bother with tickets which makes sense to me.

           When we get to Cheese City  the express bus to San José is sitting there, clearly marked with the door open, but the driver is off someplace havin' a cup of coffee or somethin' so we got to figure out what to do with this big suitcase which there is no chance it will fit in the overhead.  So I do the logical thing and set it down next to the driver's seat where we can keep an eye on it until the driver gets here and can put it under the bus where there is a place for such things. In the meantime I buy a paper from a peddler for fifty colones which is not even two bits, and start catching up on the news since I can read this language better than I can say it. You can guess the first thing I do, which my daddy taught me a long time ago, and which is about as good advice as a dad can give to his son,  is to turn to the sports page where you are guaranteed to find some good news for somebody. After getting past the usual action pictures of guys head-butting soccer balls I see a picture of el Duque the Cuban defector who is here in Costa Rica getting his pitching arm in shape and hoping somebody will sign him for a few million bucks in the U.S.  What I see is a picture of el Duque in his follow-through pitching motion which it looks to me he is maybe dragging his right foot too much. Naturally I point this out to Liddy and when she looks up from the paper she lets out an "Oh shit," because the suitcase is gone. But it turns out okay because by the time Liddy gets there which is maybe five seconds, more or less, the driver has put it under the bus where it belongs. Of course I have to take some grief from Liddy who had a real scare, even though it was mostly dirty laundry, since she has read so much about these crooks who steal suitcases and all. "Loo," she says, "you should never ask me to look at el Duque when I am supposed to be watching the suitcase."

          So. Back to the geography. We have to go over this mountain which is doused in fog even at noon and which is maybe a mile high, and which you can imagine has a narrow road and lots of cars and trucks and buses going in both directions. We passed a slow-moving sugar cane truck, and almost ran into what looked like the same truck and the same sugar cane coming in the opposite direction which made me wonder do these guys know where they are going or if maybe they just like to drive sugar cane trucks up and down the mountain and dodge buses for the fun of it. But to cut this story short we make it up over the mountain okay and down the Pan-American Highway to San José which is a major-league city of a million and a half people more or less, which is almost half the population of the whole country. Now comes the geography and the catch-we have to change buses and go back over the mountain to Turrialba. So here is what we got to do - we got to get our suitcase out from under the bus which drops us off at a down town street corner, get a taxi to take us across town to the Turrialba bus station, buy a ticket before we get on the bus since the system has changed, and ride back over the same mountain range only farther south until we get to Turrialba.

          It don't take long once we get in the taxi to find out the driver lived in Queens for a couple of years with an aunt and he knows about Shea Stadium and the Mets and all, although when I say, "ahbla Englaise?" which Liddy gives me a "Nice going, Loo" look, he do't say yes or no but holds up his thumb and first finger so close they almost touch, which I guess means a little bit. But it turns out he don't care much for baseball what with all the futbol- you know, soccer- they play down here and when I ask him about el Duque who like I said is in all the papers, this driver never heard of him. But listen to this- in the Costa Rican newspapers a pitcher is called a lanzador, and not only that, a home run is called a quadrangular which makes some kind of sense if you think about it.

          At the Turrialba Bus Station in San José  we do not get lucky enough to find an express bus unless we want to wait until four oclock, so we get the 2:30 local, but it looks okay because we are first on and get the front seat which Liddy likes because the farther back in the bus the bumpier the ride and if we don't know anything else about Costa Rica, Liddy  and me know they got bumpy roads. But maybe it won't be so bad because this is one of them 55 passenger Mercedes Benz Marco Polo buses made in Brazil in which the steering wheel is maybe two feet across. So this is a big bus and the driver is almost as big with what looks to me like a size eight head and thick knotty fingers to match.  Just about the time the bus is ready to roll an ice cream man jumps on with a big cooler, and because it is now almost eight hours since Liddy and me eat breakfast at  el Rancho Corcovado, we are happy to see this guy and we buy two popsickles, I get a guanabana which nobody in Philadelphia ever heard of, and Liddy gets a fresa, which is actually the same as strawberry.

           At the Turrialba Bus Station in San José you could not get on this bus without a ticket, but as we head out through the busy San José streets with the front door open, to let in some air Liddy thinks, but it turns out it is to let in extra passengers even though the seats are filled already and the certificate above the drivers' head says standing up is not allowed on this bus. Liddy notices that the pickups are handing the driver dirty crumpled up bills instead of tickets and he is stuffing them in his pocket while at the same time keeping his eyes on the road. Liddy starts to count the pickups and gets to seven before we leave San José.

          It is when we get to Cartago, a pretty big city though not as big as San José, about 15 miles down the road, or as it happens up the road, since Cartago is higher, that the fun really starts. When we get to the bus stop in Cartago the line stretches half-way down the block and I say to Liddy, "Why is he stopping? The bus is already full". Right. And three sardines is a full can. Liddy starts to count. Halfway through she tells me only the first four or five have tickets and the driver tossed them into the trash bag anyway. When Liddy gets to 40 he finally shuts the door and takes off for Paraiso  leaving five or six poor souls behind on the curb. But get this -on the way to Paraiso, which Liddy tells me means paradise, the driver spots a guy with a little kid giving him a wave and stops to pick them up though already the bus is so full one guy is hanging on to a pipe while half of him is outside the front door, and even though Liddy and me are in the front seat we have to stretch our necks to see the road. If this bus isn't a Marco Polo, I think, its sides would be bulging out. But the worst part of this guy with his kid who is maybe four years old, tops, is the kid now stands in front of us hanging onto a pipe with his two little hands and though he don't complain looks at us with two big sad eyes which you don't need to know Spanish means, "How come you are sitting and I have to stand up when I am little and not feeling too hot and you are big and funny looking?"

          After we have passed through Paraiso and start up the mountain, all 97 of us, not counting the driver, I start getting this feeling which Liddy says is guilt and I should pay it no mind. I whisper to Liddy maybe I should let the kid sit on my lap, but she don't like this idea because she thinks the kid is sick with his head shaved and wearing a heavy sweater even though nobody could claim it wasn't hot in this bus with all them people and this being the tropics and all. But the kid is starting to slip, and about the time I took about all I could take, the father  sits down on the step and the kid collapses into his arms and goes to sleep  with his head on his Papi's  shoulder and everybody, not counting the driver who is busy wheeling the bus around the cork screw curves with one hand and waving the other fat hand to the drivers coming down the mountain, breathes a sigh of relief. 

          From Paraiso to Turrialba is only 40  kilometers, about 24 miles, and you can get there two ways, one is to nose around the sides of a couple of ten thousand feet volcanoes, the other is to go through a peaceful valley with only a few small hills. Why anybody picked the high road is probably as easy to know as why the streets have no names here.

          But here we are on the high road and Liddy is holding up pretty good though I know she thinks the bus driver is maybe one step above a water snake which is as low as Liddy goes. She thinks jamming all these people on this bus is unsavory and probably unhealthy, and she blames this bus driver who more than once she sees folding a thick wad of dirty money in his fat hands.

          But hold on a minute, in spite of his fat, sticky, fingers, this guy knows how to get a Marco Polo bus with a hundred people or so up and down a mountain road you could hardly believe when you look down a few thousand feet, in a way nobody worries there is any problem, including Liddy, so maybe he is not so bad after all.   The big problem now is it's been more than nine hours since we eat, not counting the popsickles, and you could probably guess Liddy has to pee. "It's them popsickles," she says. But not too long after we go past the sugar cane factory in Juan Viñas this is okay too because we are skidding to a stop in the Turrialba Bus Station in Turrialba, and all them people have piled off the bus, and we got our suitcase from underneath, and we are having a Shandy in Yvonne's nephew's chicken joint where they roast the chickens on a spit over a coffee wood fire.  The chicken tastes pretty good but I couldn't help thinking it would be better over a cocoa wood fire though I keep this to myself.

          While we wait for the chicken, Liddy and me start remembering all the bad things that happened to us on Friday the thirteenth including when I was maybe five years old and a run-away Shetland pony named Jerry took me under a row of plum trees when I wasn't wearing a shirt, and Friday, April thirteenth, 1956, when I had to leave Hong Kong two days after Liddy and me got married so I could get back to my ship in Yokosuka. Liddy can't remember any other bad things that happened since then on Friday the thirteenth because she claims she was so busy with the kids she couldn't find time to pee. When I say, Liddy, that day you couldn't find time to pee was on Friday the thirteenth, she gives me a punch. 

 

P.S. I just saw a picture in the Miami Herald of el Duque pitching in a Yankees uniform after he signed for 10 million bucks. He is still draggin' his right leg on the follow through.

 

Turrialba 400 meters below Andre Helfenbergers finca, Saturday February 21, 1998

                (eight days later)

 

 

                              NAILED IN SANTA  ELENA

          We been here in Costa Rica over a month now and we been movin' around sponging off old friends, riding buses, seeing lots of birds including a whole flock we never saw before-just for one example, though you'll probably think I just made this up-the Tawny-throated Leaftosser. Okay, here's another-the Lineated Foliage-gleaner. One thing you should know which we have learned here-a real bird-watcher, and for sure a professional guide, can say these things with pretty much a straight face. So don't get the idea Liddy and me are real bird-watchers because we are embarrassed to say these things out loud, let alone with a straight face. But if we are not real bird-watchers it don't mean we don't like to look at the birds down here some of which are green-yellow-and-blue all at the same time, and which when the sun hits them they shine like you could hardly believe.

          But I'm not here to tell you about birds. Except I got to tell you this one thing and then I'll shut up about birds. It's that we been seein a bat rack full of Baltimore Orioles sticking out their bright orange chests in the sunshine, and I just found out there is a bird here, down for the winter like the Oriole, called A Philadelphia Vireo, and that this bird, as you could probably guess is small and sort of a dull mustard-color, like you might see on a soft pretzel, so it is easy to miss, but the book says the Philly Vireo hangs out with the Tennessee Warbler, which we seen plenty of so I'm gonna look closer the next chance I get. Liddy thinks, and I agree, we may end up the only people in Philadelphia to see a Philadelphia Vireo and maybe even the only ones who ever heard of it since not too many people in Philly make a habit of reading BIRDS OF COSTA RICA by Stiles and Skutch (Cornell University Press).

          But now I'm getting to the point, which is that Liddy's got a problem. It is her nails. Since we left Philly she has had to watch the polish come off and some of them start to split and there is hangnails and problems with cuticles and all, and you can guess it is a mess. So when I see this lady behind the counter at the art shop in Monteverde, where we have now landed for a month, selling postcards and pictures of Quetzals and what not, I notice her nails have these fancy designs like Liddy used to get when we lived here that time a few years ago, and I say to Liddy, "Liddy, look at that ladies' nails, maybe there is somewhere here you can get yours fixed." So Liddy asks and the lady tells her, 'Yes you can go into Santa Elena," which it turns out is a town about a mile down the road, "and there you will find two different places where you can get your nails fixed."

          So now I am at last getting to the point here, which is that Liddy and me walk the mile to Santa Elena which takes us an hour, and the road is so dusty Liddy  has to wear a bandana over her nose on account of her asthma and all, and she was worried they would take her for a bank robber which a few weeks ago we read three guys get away with five million colones, which is maybe twenty thousand U.S. bucks, from the Santa Elena Bank. Not only does Santa Elena have a bank but she also has a post office, although the whole town will fit easy into Center City Philadelphia among the space filled up between Market and Chestnut and sixteenth to eighteenth streets, if you know what I mean. Santa Elena reminds me of one of those dusty wild west towns you used to see in the movies. They got a bar with a sign in English that says- WILD PARTIES- ALL NIGHT. They also got two grocery stores, a Catholic church, though it don't have a spire, a bus station, which is just one small room where they sell tickets if you can find the ticket-seller, a furniture store, a restaurant-el Daiquiri, and a taxi stand where the drivers goggle the young American or maybe Canadian or even German girls in their shorts, sandals, and tank tops coming out of the bank where they stood in line maybe 45 minutes to get their travelers checks cashed. They also got horses in Santa Elena-I saw two, all saddled and bridled, with lariats coiled around the saddle horn-they were standing in the back of a pickup truck bumping down the main street which in Costa Rica they don't bother to give a name, but in Santa Elena it don't matter because it is the only one.

          And the lady at the Art shop is right, they got two nail places here in Santa Elena which, because of the Spanish and all they call Sala Bellezas. Actually one is called Salon Belleza de Zeliedy which Liddy tells me means Zeliedy's Beauty Parlor, and is down some steps under a Butcher shop, while the other is called Sala Belleza de Margarita which Liddy says means Margarita's Beauty Room, and is up some steps over a grocery store. But it don't matter and Liddy is saved a choice, which she hates anyway, because a little kid tells us in Spanish that Margarita is at the Health Clinic, which I forgot to mention, and the Butcher tells us Zeliedy works up at the Soda (which is sort of like a snack shop) next to the bus station when nobody is in her Salon which it turns out is most of the time. When we go to the Soda we find it is closed and nobody knows where Zeliedy is although it is possible she is out somewhere looking through stained glass at the solar eclipse which I forgot to mention is today and has stirred up a lot of excitement here in Santa Elena.

          But hold on, the story don't end. It turns out the lady at the Art shop is wrong, there are three nail places in Santa Elena, which is about the same number as in those four square blocks in Philly I mentioned Santa Elena would fit in. Liddy finds this out because when Liddy decides to get her nails done not even Santa Elena can stop her. Not today of course, because of the eclipse and all. But tomorrow she hops the bus to Santa Elena and comes back a couple hours later with not only her nails done but they also wacked off her hair, which she was having trouble doing anything with. She is a happy lady and looks like a million if you ask me.

          But it's a shame it don't last because it turns out those snazzy looking red nails with the nifty little white designs over in the corner is fake, and before we know it the nail falls off Liddy's thumb, which she says is because the nail bed is flat and you got to expect these things to happen, and anyway you can paste it back on with superglue which it turns out you can get in Santa Elena, although you can't get black pepper there, but that's another story. But the next thing you know two more fake nails fall off on fingers where the nail bed ain't so flat, and you can imagine Liddy don't think much of this, and starts to make cracks about the kind of service you get in Santa Elena and how in Philly they put oil on the nail bed before they paste on the nail, or something like that. So I don't know exactly what's gonna happen, but I got  a feeling we don't hear the end of this Santa Elena story, and that Liddy is thinking up to say something in Spanish to Sonja who I forgot to say runs the third Sala Belleza in Santa Elena.

 

Monteverde- fifteen hundred meters up the road from Santa Elena

Ferbruary 28, 1998

 

 

 

Max and Liddy will be in Costa Rica all of Feruary and March 2004

Watching tropical birds

and hanging out in front of the fig tree across from Elsa's Bakery in Monteverde

Or checking out the Long-tailed Manikins with Adrian and Melvin

and the Keel-billed Toucans and Three-wattled Bell-birds

For more information call: 856-881-9454