The day we arrived back at our resort from our trip inland, we did some crossword puzzles, but mostly let our tired, weary selves soak up the absence of thinking and bouncing along jarring roads.
When the dinner hour approached, we were ready for something other than the hotel menu. Between the two of us, we'd eaten everything we could afford on the dinner menu; it was no longer interesting or enticing. In his extensive research prior to arriving in Costa Rica, Kyle had heard great reviews of a restaurant that was only a few miles from our beachy home. Despite the fact we'd just spent a day and night in the car, it seemed worth the 30-minute trip on the painful roads to have some variety in our diet.
It was dark as we left our second-story room. Taking the first set of stairs down in the open-air hallways, we were excitedly chatting about the food we would discover at Restaurant Copal.
Special note: The rooms at our hotel were divided up by twos; each set of two rooms shared an external alcove and set of double doors (although each room had it's own outer door into the alcove). While we were one of maybe three groups of tourists staying at this resort, most of the alcoves had their lights on at night. Remember, we were on the very edge of the jungle, and our room was on the very end of the row of rooms. The "hall" from our room went one direction, and in the opposite direction, away from the other rooms, we faced total darkness. There were not parking lot lights or, in general, external lighting for the hotel. The lights were concentrated where the rooms, the hotel restaurant, and the lobby were. None were on when these various locations were not in use.
Thus, at the bottom of the stairs, we passed a dark alcove that led to two unused rooms. I was about to comment on how dark it was, when something jumped out of the alcove towards me, and I lunged Kyle's direction, away from it.
"What happened?" he questioned, and then we both looked in front of us.
Running in the direction of 1) our car, 2) the hotel restaurant, and 3) the only exit from our room's location, was a skunk. It's tail was raised in a perfect perpendicular line from the rest of its body. As it waddled quickly away, I gasped and started RUNNING in the opposite direction, toward the jungle at the end of the dark hallway.
"Was that a Skunk?" he called as we ran.
I find it ironic that in Costa Rica, in Latin America, next to the jungle, I would run into an animal that I could run into at home. Not a monkey (which we heard all the time, but never saw), not a lemur, not any kind of exotic animal that one might hope to see in such an environment. No, a skunk. This would be the only animal that I would encounter in my excursion to the jungle.
As we reached the end of the hall, we sniffed the air and realized that we hadn't escaped the thing we were running from. The smell permeated everything; it was a heavy, choking stench that clogged the nostrils and repulsed mouth-breathing. I wondered how we were going to get to dinner -- whether at Restaurant Copal or at our hotel. Everything that had food was in the direction of the skunk.
The skunk's little hiding place, and thus the primary point of stench, was near the only set of stairs that went up. We had no choice but to go through it, one way or another, to reach our car. We held our breath and ran through the smell and upstairs; we kept running, barely breathing (which is not an easy task), until we reached the furthest set of stairs from skunk-smell. We ran all the way to the car, where we jumped into the claustrophobic combo of oil and man-sweat.
"I think we smell." At that point, we began scent-inspecting our clothes, only to discover that one can still reek of skunk without a direct hit. It had begun the nighttime drenching rain, and we sat in our car, which was not turned on, shivering and stinking up an already stinking vehicle. Weighing our options, we decided to continue on in our smelliness to Restaurant Copal. Hoping they would admit two reeking people for a bit of food. Our money was still good, even if we were offensive.
Finding the restaurant was, um, difficult, at best. The roadside handmade signs indicating where it was abruptly ended while we were attempting to climb a road of matted, soaking 2-foot-tall grass. There was a steep grade up, most of the time, and I could barely make out a substantial drop to the right of the single lane. We passed a building that had no lights on. It appeared to be a home, a large one which (I would have guessed) was owned by a wealthy family. We passed a driveway to a large estate, and then the road went steeply down. I was quite sure our car, even in 4-wheel drive, could never make it back up the slippery grass-covered road.
"Please turn around. Please turn around." I started a mantra, hoping that in his concentration, Kyle might hear me and subconsciously think turning around was the best idea. Before we got too far down, he heard me, and agreed that it was a bad idea to continue following this path.
When we made it back to the home on the side of the road, we realized that this was most likely Restaurant Copal, and it appeared that they closed for the Rainy Season. Which, after traversing this path, made total sense. Getting to it was treacherous and life-endangering.
We gave up and drove back to the hotel, bringing our excursion to a sad end. We still stunk of skunk, we were starving and had to eat the same food we'd been having all week, and now it was really late, having spent at least an hour searching for the elusive Restaurant Copal.
As we took a seat in the hotel restaurant, one of our favorite waitresses approached.
"How do you say Skunk in Spanish?" I asked her (in Spanish--Como se dice "skunk" en espanol?)
She shook her head; she didn't know what skunk was.
"Blanco y negro animal?" I asked, measuring the size with my hands.
"Oh! Si! El sorro."
"Yes, well, we just got sprayed by one." That, I said in English. She looked at us, we nodded, and she sniffed. As she began laughing, she turned to the girl behind the counter and related to her in Spanish what had happened to us. They chuckled, and then told the guys in the kitchen, who began roaring with laughter.
"We're the stinky people." I said to Kyle, feeling very defeated.
All through dinner, we would catch wiffs of the rank, pungent odor of skunk. Surely we couldn't continue to smell that bad, since we weren't directly hit.
We learned, later, that employees of the hotel were trying to find the little guy with flashlights and the continued wafts during dinner were his answers to their attempts to corner him.
For the next few days, Kyle swore he kept smelling skunk every now and then in the room, despite the fact that we left our clothes outside to be drenched by the rain and dried by the sun.
Turns out, it was my favorite Sketchers sandals that were the offending culprits. They had a crack in the bottom that absorbed the rainy, skunky water and would not stop smelling.
In the end, I was forced to leave them in the room, knowing that I was not about to put them in my suitcase to contaminate everything I had with me, nor was I going to wear them for our 22-hours of travel -- smelling on a plane, in airports, and in our car. I would not be the smelly person again. I take great pains to avoid smelling, including taking two showers a day. Thus, my Sketchers and I parted ways on Sunday morning at 3am when Kyle and I headed off to the airport.
The skunk was, truly, the last straw for me. Had another misadventure come our way, I would have dissolved into a teary pile of nerves. But, Friday we did nothing in order to recover from two previous days of insanity. Saturday, we found a perfect beach to visit and the sun shone all day. We were actually sun-burned while swimming in the little bay. When we saw a couple of large fish splashing about near us, we questioned why they were so close to shore, we left their turf, deciding not to play any games with water creatures. Thus, we had a perfect last day in Costa Rica.
Sunday began at 3:15am, as we showered, packed, and took the 1.5 hour trek to the airport. We arrived home in Upland on Monday morning at 1:30am.
Kyle thought my honeymoon episodes were going to be bash-fests for a terrible experience. But, see, I have grown up enough to be able to share the positive with the negative. Scary, terrible things happened on this trip. But so did wonderful, indescribable things. And, as one of my friends said, at least I was with a man who loved me and was determined to take care of us and get us to safety. It's true. He was calm at all times and instrumental in figuring out how to deal with each of our misfortunes.
I was thrilled to be home, I cannot lie. But that's when the other side of being newly-weds began: the adjustments. An entirely new set of adventures, to be sure.
Showing posts with label honeymoon. Show all posts
Showing posts with label honeymoon. Show all posts
30 November 2008
18 November 2008
Desperation, then Sunshine & Relaxation
Thursday began on a positive note. The replacement car, a Chevy Tracker circa 2001, was delivered to our sleepy selves. And after transferring our bag, the leftover pizza and giant Coke to the new vehicle, they waved us off.
"What, no paper work?"
"Nada."
We had a decision to make: Where to go. Back to Tilaran and hope there was a hotel, or continue toward La Fortuna, which we knew was touristy?
Revived from our quick nap and food sustenance, we opted for the latter option. Knowing full well the time of morning/night that it was, we figured we'd arrive by 2am and sleep for hours in a hotel near the volcano; a delightful plan.
We continued on the beautifully paved road, a little wary as we passed a certain spot on a certain straightaway about 10 km from the gas station. No animals, no rain, no cars--just wide, open Costa Rican road. We talked for a while, and then I was lulled back into my Dramamine/sleep-deprived stupor. Eventually, Kyle began shutting down. When it took him five minutes to answer a simple question like, "Are you awake?", I knew we needed to stop.
Looking for hotels on the road was as difficult as trying to find anything else in Costa Rica. Though this was the pathway to the tourist area surrounding the Volcano, most of it was framed by tropical jungle.
We found a sign for a hotel a few kilometers from the road, causing us to give up the smooth pavement for the typical boulder-strewn, chuck-holed chaos. It was painful, especially coming off of the day/night we just had, but obviously at this point sleep was so much more important than our temporary discomfort. Fifteen minutes of driving brought us to a very beautiful, expensive-looking resorty-type-deal that was completely devoid of life; no reception attendant, no late-night partiers, nothing. Apparently, most people in Costa Rica like to sleep at two in the morning.
After that 30-minute detour, we were reticent to try another multi-kilometer trek off the paved path. But as 2:30 passed and we approached 3am, I watched the blinking of Kyle's eyes take longer and longer breaks on the downward motion.
"We have to stop." I was definitive.
"I know, but where?"
I had no answer.
Suddenly, we arrived in La Fortuna. Hotel after hotel was closed. No reception area was open. As we should have learned earlier, and we reluctantly learned again now, everything shuts down in Costa Rica around 9:30pm.
Near tears and yet devoid of a plan, I was thrown off when Kyle whipped the car into a hotel parking lot, backed into a spot, threw the car into park, killed the engine, and laid his seat down in one swift motion.
"What're you doing?!" Desperately, I looked at him, praying he did not intend to do what his actions clearly indicated.
"Lay your seat down and go to sleep. We have to sleep here."
Appalled, but desperate for some rest, I began muttering. I was completely out of my mind and my contacts were grittily stuck to my eyes, my teeth gungy, my face greasy, my clothes foul. I plucked my poor contacts out and, with grimy fingers, placed them in solution. Flinging myself away from the driver's side of the car, I spat, "I want to go home."
"Yeah, we'll be at our hotel tomorrow night, babe."
But that's not what I meant. Indiana, Upland even, was looking and sounding like a retreat. A bed. A shower. Food. A bathroom. Water to drink. Clean clothes. A known world. My car. My house.
By 3:30am, we dropped into a fitful, frightful sleep. I woke with tiny ants crawling all over me, not to mention the mosquitoes that plagued my ears while I tried to sleep. Throughout the night, monkeys and other jungle creatures kept up a constant conversation.
The sun rises in Costa Rica around 5:30, so we didn't have a chance of sleeping for long. By 4:45, traffic had picked up on the road and I was done sleeping. Terrified that the owner or a worker from the hotel would spot us in our car and call the cops, I was desperate to leave. But we had no where to go.
Our plans were completely foiled. Wednesday was supposed to be filled with hot springs and relaxing at a hotel (not sleeping in its parking lot), and Thursday was our day to fly through the jungle on zip lines. The breakdown had thoroughly demolished the plan, but how do you pick up those pieces? Do you try to do it all? What do you leave out?
Squinting through my dirty, old-prescription glasses, I tried to figure out where we were as the sun rose. A land form was looming before us, perfectly framed in the windshield, but my glasses are so bad, I couldn't make out any definite shapes in the rosy dawn.
Unlike a bad dream where discomfort and haunting thoughts disappear upon awaking, when I regained full cognizant ability, I realized that I was filthier than ever, and that my body now hurt from the tenseness of the night's events as well as sleeping on Tracker car seats.
Suddenly, as the sun broke the horizon, it hit me. The looming landform was Volcan Arenal. We made it! I pushed Kyle's shoulder, "Wake up! You're not going to believe this..." I was so excited; something good had actually happened on this inland excursion. The typical Wilson Wake-Up involves gasping, sitting bolt upright, and saying something akin to, "What, what happened? What's going on?" I tried to show him the volcano, but I'm pretty sure his eyes were still plastered shut and, to be honest, he looked like death.
With the sun up, it was time to leave our cozy parking spot. But we encountered the same problem we'd had the night before. Nothing was open. But this time it was too early. We drove aimlessly for an hour until one hotel restaurant opened a breakfast buffet. After washing faces, brushing teeth, and cleaning contacts and putting them in, we felt better. Food revived us even more and we began to see the unfathomable beauty of Costa Rica.
Flowers of infinite color and variety splayed out in every direction. The sun shone brilliantly that morning, glinting off of the dew covering every shade of green imaginable. The volcano itself faced us with varying shades of earth and grass, a lovely site to behold in all it's smoking glory.
When I returned to my seat, Kyle had a small rose for me (I think someone gave it to him, or he picked it from the hotel's beautiful landscaping).
Post-breakfast we were more than ready to shower, but lacked a place to do it. Problem solver that he is, Kyle's answer was perfect: Hot Springs! Through a rather roundabout way, we found ourselves three miles off the beaten path, halfway up a mountain that directly faced the beautiful, luscious side of Volcan Arenal. The resort whose hot springs were cheapest (only $25 per person for two days of access), happened to be the newest one on the market. Only two months old, this resort had been under construction for six years, and encompasses the entire side of a mountain. They have over ten varied-temperature springs and pools spread out across their grounds. They have villas that seemed carved from beautiful solid wood. Everything was spotless, smelled like a mixture of jungle air and the pure freshness that only comes with being newly minted. More elaborate and beautiful than any hotel or resort I've ever seen, this place must be worth billions of dollars; and the construction is still underway.
When the rain started while we were in the outdoor hot springs, the contrast of cool rain in our hair and on our faces to the warmth of the springs made the experience that much more surreal and memorable.
My descriptions of this resort (The Springs at Arenal) will never do it justice. I could spend hours constructing sentences in an effort to give you the look, feel, taste, and splendor of this place. But, alas, I lack the ability to create such beauty in word pictures. Which is why I give you the link above so you can peruse it through professional marketing photography. Anyone who desires to go to Costa Rica, must, in the very least, go explore this place. I don't know anyone who could afford to stay there when the introductory prices and deals disappear. However, the springs will always be cheaper than staying in a room and their spa was state-of-the-art--so there are options for getting access.
After bathing in the springs for a few hours (and shamelessly photographing everything in sight while exploring the grounds), we retired to the gendered shower areas to clean our dirtied, yet rejuvenated selves. We were, essentially, the only people there. I spotted one other guest, a very hairy middle-aged man, during our entire visit. We each had an entire locker-room area to ourselves. Reluctantly, we departed the pampering and beauty of this place to head back down the mountain. We had a date with a masseuse at yet another resort (we were bargain-shopping for everything, you see. And the spa prices here at The Springs were far more than the tiny resort back in La Fortuna).
An hour and a half later, nearly comatose, we emerged into a sunshiny, very humid afternoon. Our muscles, which had been hard as granite from the previous day's traversing, had become putty in the hands of these masseuses. We'd both slept and emerged fully relaxed.
"No more adventures," I said, "I want to go home."
Kyle agreed and we sank into the car, whose seats had been such an appalling bed-space only 12 hours before, and now seemed to cradle us like a mother's arms to her baby.
On our five-hour journey back to the beach, we recounted stories from the day before, interjecting, "Was that just last night? Surely not. It seems like ages ago," and other like-minded comments. We were, and continue to be, so grateful for God's provision during the craziness, for his peace while we were stranded and nervous, and for angels wearing jeans, like the Tico box truck driver and the guy who brought us pizza.
"What, no paper work?"
"Nada."
We had a decision to make: Where to go. Back to Tilaran and hope there was a hotel, or continue toward La Fortuna, which we knew was touristy?
Revived from our quick nap and food sustenance, we opted for the latter option. Knowing full well the time of morning/night that it was, we figured we'd arrive by 2am and sleep for hours in a hotel near the volcano; a delightful plan.
We continued on the beautifully paved road, a little wary as we passed a certain spot on a certain straightaway about 10 km from the gas station. No animals, no rain, no cars--just wide, open Costa Rican road. We talked for a while, and then I was lulled back into my Dramamine/sleep-deprived stupor. Eventually, Kyle began shutting down. When it took him five minutes to answer a simple question like, "Are you awake?", I knew we needed to stop.
Looking for hotels on the road was as difficult as trying to find anything else in Costa Rica. Though this was the pathway to the tourist area surrounding the Volcano, most of it was framed by tropical jungle.
We found a sign for a hotel a few kilometers from the road, causing us to give up the smooth pavement for the typical boulder-strewn, chuck-holed chaos. It was painful, especially coming off of the day/night we just had, but obviously at this point sleep was so much more important than our temporary discomfort. Fifteen minutes of driving brought us to a very beautiful, expensive-looking resorty-type-deal that was completely devoid of life; no reception attendant, no late-night partiers, nothing. Apparently, most people in Costa Rica like to sleep at two in the morning.
After that 30-minute detour, we were reticent to try another multi-kilometer trek off the paved path. But as 2:30 passed and we approached 3am, I watched the blinking of Kyle's eyes take longer and longer breaks on the downward motion.
"We have to stop." I was definitive.
"I know, but where?"
I had no answer.
Suddenly, we arrived in La Fortuna. Hotel after hotel was closed. No reception area was open. As we should have learned earlier, and we reluctantly learned again now, everything shuts down in Costa Rica around 9:30pm.
Near tears and yet devoid of a plan, I was thrown off when Kyle whipped the car into a hotel parking lot, backed into a spot, threw the car into park, killed the engine, and laid his seat down in one swift motion.
"What're you doing?!" Desperately, I looked at him, praying he did not intend to do what his actions clearly indicated.
"Lay your seat down and go to sleep. We have to sleep here."
Appalled, but desperate for some rest, I began muttering. I was completely out of my mind and my contacts were grittily stuck to my eyes, my teeth gungy, my face greasy, my clothes foul. I plucked my poor contacts out and, with grimy fingers, placed them in solution. Flinging myself away from the driver's side of the car, I spat, "I want to go home."
"Yeah, we'll be at our hotel tomorrow night, babe."
But that's not what I meant. Indiana, Upland even, was looking and sounding like a retreat. A bed. A shower. Food. A bathroom. Water to drink. Clean clothes. A known world. My car. My house.
By 3:30am, we dropped into a fitful, frightful sleep. I woke with tiny ants crawling all over me, not to mention the mosquitoes that plagued my ears while I tried to sleep. Throughout the night, monkeys and other jungle creatures kept up a constant conversation.
The sun rises in Costa Rica around 5:30, so we didn't have a chance of sleeping for long. By 4:45, traffic had picked up on the road and I was done sleeping. Terrified that the owner or a worker from the hotel would spot us in our car and call the cops, I was desperate to leave. But we had no where to go.
Our plans were completely foiled. Wednesday was supposed to be filled with hot springs and relaxing at a hotel (not sleeping in its parking lot), and Thursday was our day to fly through the jungle on zip lines. The breakdown had thoroughly demolished the plan, but how do you pick up those pieces? Do you try to do it all? What do you leave out?
Squinting through my dirty, old-prescription glasses, I tried to figure out where we were as the sun rose. A land form was looming before us, perfectly framed in the windshield, but my glasses are so bad, I couldn't make out any definite shapes in the rosy dawn.
Unlike a bad dream where discomfort and haunting thoughts disappear upon awaking, when I regained full cognizant ability, I realized that I was filthier than ever, and that my body now hurt from the tenseness of the night's events as well as sleeping on Tracker car seats.
Suddenly, as the sun broke the horizon, it hit me. The looming landform was Volcan Arenal. We made it! I pushed Kyle's shoulder, "Wake up! You're not going to believe this..." I was so excited; something good had actually happened on this inland excursion. The typical Wilson Wake-Up involves gasping, sitting bolt upright, and saying something akin to, "What, what happened? What's going on?" I tried to show him the volcano, but I'm pretty sure his eyes were still plastered shut and, to be honest, he looked like death.
With the sun up, it was time to leave our cozy parking spot. But we encountered the same problem we'd had the night before. Nothing was open. But this time it was too early. We drove aimlessly for an hour until one hotel restaurant opened a breakfast buffet. After washing faces, brushing teeth, and cleaning contacts and putting them in, we felt better. Food revived us even more and we began to see the unfathomable beauty of Costa Rica.
Flowers of infinite color and variety splayed out in every direction. The sun shone brilliantly that morning, glinting off of the dew covering every shade of green imaginable. The volcano itself faced us with varying shades of earth and grass, a lovely site to behold in all it's smoking glory.
When I returned to my seat, Kyle had a small rose for me (I think someone gave it to him, or he picked it from the hotel's beautiful landscaping).
Post-breakfast we were more than ready to shower, but lacked a place to do it. Problem solver that he is, Kyle's answer was perfect: Hot Springs! Through a rather roundabout way, we found ourselves three miles off the beaten path, halfway up a mountain that directly faced the beautiful, luscious side of Volcan Arenal. The resort whose hot springs were cheapest (only $25 per person for two days of access), happened to be the newest one on the market. Only two months old, this resort had been under construction for six years, and encompasses the entire side of a mountain. They have over ten varied-temperature springs and pools spread out across their grounds. They have villas that seemed carved from beautiful solid wood. Everything was spotless, smelled like a mixture of jungle air and the pure freshness that only comes with being newly minted. More elaborate and beautiful than any hotel or resort I've ever seen, this place must be worth billions of dollars; and the construction is still underway.
When the rain started while we were in the outdoor hot springs, the contrast of cool rain in our hair and on our faces to the warmth of the springs made the experience that much more surreal and memorable.
My descriptions of this resort (The Springs at Arenal) will never do it justice. I could spend hours constructing sentences in an effort to give you the look, feel, taste, and splendor of this place. But, alas, I lack the ability to create such beauty in word pictures. Which is why I give you the link above so you can peruse it through professional marketing photography. Anyone who desires to go to Costa Rica, must, in the very least, go explore this place. I don't know anyone who could afford to stay there when the introductory prices and deals disappear. However, the springs will always be cheaper than staying in a room and their spa was state-of-the-art--so there are options for getting access.
After bathing in the springs for a few hours (and shamelessly photographing everything in sight while exploring the grounds), we retired to the gendered shower areas to clean our dirtied, yet rejuvenated selves. We were, essentially, the only people there. I spotted one other guest, a very hairy middle-aged man, during our entire visit. We each had an entire locker-room area to ourselves. Reluctantly, we departed the pampering and beauty of this place to head back down the mountain. We had a date with a masseuse at yet another resort (we were bargain-shopping for everything, you see. And the spa prices here at The Springs were far more than the tiny resort back in La Fortuna).
An hour and a half later, nearly comatose, we emerged into a sunshiny, very humid afternoon. Our muscles, which had been hard as granite from the previous day's traversing, had become putty in the hands of these masseuses. We'd both slept and emerged fully relaxed.
"No more adventures," I said, "I want to go home."
Kyle agreed and we sank into the car, whose seats had been such an appalling bed-space only 12 hours before, and now seemed to cradle us like a mother's arms to her baby.
On our five-hour journey back to the beach, we recounted stories from the day before, interjecting, "Was that just last night? Surely not. It seems like ages ago," and other like-minded comments. We were, and continue to be, so grateful for God's provision during the craziness, for his peace while we were stranded and nervous, and for angels wearing jeans, like the Tico box truck driver and the guy who brought us pizza.
13 November 2008
Costa Rica 1; Wilsons 0
Not that anyone is keeping score, but at this point, the Ants had won and we had lost. What we didn't know (little did they know) was that we were about to lose again. For the second day in a row.
Not even 15 minutes into the trip on the beautifully paved road of the North Shore of Lake Arenal, I heard a tinkling on the road behind us, like a wrench or something metal had fallen. Before I could even say, "did you hear that?" or "I heard something...", the car wrenched left across the other lane of traffic. A grinding noise started, much like you might hear when metal hits pavement. Though we didn't spin out of control, we were swerving all over the road, and with it being dark, we were in a very dangerous situation. Gripping with all his might, Kyle steered the car to a stop on the far right side of the road. No lane lines; no reflectors. Just us, in a broken car in the dark on the side of a Costa Rican road.
We thought we lost a tire; it really felt like the back passenger tire flew off, and the noise seemed to confirm it. Yet, when we got out to investigate, all tires were accounted for, there was nothing hanging from the undercarriage, and in truth nothing looked awry. But throwing the vehicle into drive caused nothing to happen, as if no transmission existed. Kyle tried putting it into 4-wheel drive, and we actually got the car to lurch forward a foot or two, but a new sound began: grinding and banging, deafening thudding on the undercarriage as if something sharp and metal would puncture the floor and impale us.
I was terrified for a number of reasons. The little research I had done ahead of time on Costa Rican travel had informed me that gringos should not be out at night. Especially not with anything of value (we just had an overnight bag, but still). We also didn't have a phone. Or a phone card. We knew no one (obviously), and had no way of actually making contact with anyone. Based on our afternoon adventures, I also knew that the likelihood of coming across someone who spoke English well enough to communicate our predicament was slim. Then, the thoughts of "This is my honeymoon; this shouldn't be happening" began, and I nearly lost it.
The day turned chilly when the sun went down, and I started shivering, kind of a shock plus cold equals mental and physical breakdown type of shiver. Every time Kyle would get out of the car to attempt to wave down a passing car, I'd start crying; trying to suck it all up by the time he returned.
No one would stop. An hour we sat there and no one stopped, even though our hazard lights were on, the hood was up, and Kyle was waving his arms at each passing vehicle. A number of cars passed from both directions, but they'd just flash their lights and zoom past going treacherous speeds for these mountain roads. Finally, a small pickup stopped. The driver was a Canadian who had a very pregnant Tico woman in the passenger seat, his wife. He offered to come check on us after he dropped his wife off at home. We had such faith in him--someone who spoke English!!! But, alas, he never returned.
An hour later, Kyle waved down a huge box truck. The man did not speak English and in my very broken Spanish I tried to explain our car was broken (without knowing the Spanish word for broken). After hearing the ominous sounds emitted when it inched forward, he promised to come back and help us when he made his delivery. "Diez minutos," he said. I had no hope left, but indeed in about thirty minutes he came back for us.
He graciously let us use his cell to call the car rental company, who apologized for the inconvenience and offered to deliver a replacement vehicle to us that night. "We're in San Jose, though, so it'll take us three and a half hours to get there." We balked. What would we do? Where would we go? This was the absolute middle of nowhere! "And one more thing," the guy on the phone said, "You have to get the car off the road. You must drive it into a town." No amount of Kyle's convincing argument that "it cannot be driven" would assuage the rental guy. He asserted that it would be stripped of anything useful by the time they arrived, and that, obviously, would leave them with a real problem (my guess was they didn't understand how bad a broken axle and dysfunctional transmission can be).
The kind delivery man offered to follow us the six miles back to the small town we'd passed hours earlier. Praying very hard, we get back in the murderous Oso Rojo and start inching toward Tilaran. Within five minutes, the truck driver flashed us over. "It's taking too long," he said in Spanish. "I'll pull you." He retrieved a 5-foot chain, tied it (I didn't know huge chains could be tied) to both vehicles and began pulling us at about 10-15 mph. The grinding and banging was so loud, Kyle and I had to scream at each other to be heard. Soon, we gave up talking and just prayed for the seemingly endless 30 minutes it took the man to tow us.
He pulled into a gas station and jumped out. "It's taking too long. I have to go." We knew it was true. This man was on the clock and had just taken AT LEAST an hour to help us. We gave him some money for his guardian angelship and profusely thanked him, never even learning his name.
And then we looked around. A gas station with one attendant in an outside booth (the store part of the business was not open). Several middle-aged Ticos sat around playing cards, listening to the radio, and, in general, loitering. We were not in any town; this was so not Tilaran.
Starving, by this time it's 9pm and we'd eaten lunch at the road-side diner at 11, we ask the attendant if he can go in and get us food. He was very annoyed and yelled in Spanish about "how was he supposed to help us?" and "what could he do?" We ended up borrowing a phone card from a random loitering man to call the car rental place. "We'll be there in three hours." The delivery truck man had called and told them exactly where to find us (God bless him).
Once again, we found ourselves stuck. So we prayed some more. A car pulled up, driven by a friend of the station attendant, and he asked if the guy would go get us some food. "Yes, for 5 American dollars." It was not a hard decision. I gave him some money to purchase the food, completely ignorant of the conversion rates and how much I had handed over. We were sure he'd take the money and run. But, like another Good Samaritan, he returned in 30 minutes with a huge, greasy pepperoni pizza and a 3-liter of Coke.
In minutes, it was devoured. Lacking napkins, we used finished crossword puzzle pages to "clean" our hands. Momentarily satiated, we passed out in our stinky, broken car. We were filthy; having awakened at 6am for this glorious day, we traipsed in and out of the humidity taking pictures between driving long stretches. Having consumed this delicious pizza, we had nothing left to do but collapse, giving in to the utter exhaustion from the day.
And this is how Wednesday ended. Awaiting our "new" car, stranded at a nonfunctional gas station, completely relying on strangers at every turn to be generous and kind to a couple of disillusioned, dirty Americans.
Not even 15 minutes into the trip on the beautifully paved road of the North Shore of Lake Arenal, I heard a tinkling on the road behind us, like a wrench or something metal had fallen. Before I could even say, "did you hear that?" or "I heard something...", the car wrenched left across the other lane of traffic. A grinding noise started, much like you might hear when metal hits pavement. Though we didn't spin out of control, we were swerving all over the road, and with it being dark, we were in a very dangerous situation. Gripping with all his might, Kyle steered the car to a stop on the far right side of the road. No lane lines; no reflectors. Just us, in a broken car in the dark on the side of a Costa Rican road.
We thought we lost a tire; it really felt like the back passenger tire flew off, and the noise seemed to confirm it. Yet, when we got out to investigate, all tires were accounted for, there was nothing hanging from the undercarriage, and in truth nothing looked awry. But throwing the vehicle into drive caused nothing to happen, as if no transmission existed. Kyle tried putting it into 4-wheel drive, and we actually got the car to lurch forward a foot or two, but a new sound began: grinding and banging, deafening thudding on the undercarriage as if something sharp and metal would puncture the floor and impale us.
I was terrified for a number of reasons. The little research I had done ahead of time on Costa Rican travel had informed me that gringos should not be out at night. Especially not with anything of value (we just had an overnight bag, but still). We also didn't have a phone. Or a phone card. We knew no one (obviously), and had no way of actually making contact with anyone. Based on our afternoon adventures, I also knew that the likelihood of coming across someone who spoke English well enough to communicate our predicament was slim. Then, the thoughts of "This is my honeymoon; this shouldn't be happening" began, and I nearly lost it.
The day turned chilly when the sun went down, and I started shivering, kind of a shock plus cold equals mental and physical breakdown type of shiver. Every time Kyle would get out of the car to attempt to wave down a passing car, I'd start crying; trying to suck it all up by the time he returned.
No one would stop. An hour we sat there and no one stopped, even though our hazard lights were on, the hood was up, and Kyle was waving his arms at each passing vehicle. A number of cars passed from both directions, but they'd just flash their lights and zoom past going treacherous speeds for these mountain roads. Finally, a small pickup stopped. The driver was a Canadian who had a very pregnant Tico woman in the passenger seat, his wife. He offered to come check on us after he dropped his wife off at home. We had such faith in him--someone who spoke English!!! But, alas, he never returned.
An hour later, Kyle waved down a huge box truck. The man did not speak English and in my very broken Spanish I tried to explain our car was broken (without knowing the Spanish word for broken). After hearing the ominous sounds emitted when it inched forward, he promised to come back and help us when he made his delivery. "Diez minutos," he said. I had no hope left, but indeed in about thirty minutes he came back for us.
He graciously let us use his cell to call the car rental company, who apologized for the inconvenience and offered to deliver a replacement vehicle to us that night. "We're in San Jose, though, so it'll take us three and a half hours to get there." We balked. What would we do? Where would we go? This was the absolute middle of nowhere! "And one more thing," the guy on the phone said, "You have to get the car off the road. You must drive it into a town." No amount of Kyle's convincing argument that "it cannot be driven" would assuage the rental guy. He asserted that it would be stripped of anything useful by the time they arrived, and that, obviously, would leave them with a real problem (my guess was they didn't understand how bad a broken axle and dysfunctional transmission can be).
The kind delivery man offered to follow us the six miles back to the small town we'd passed hours earlier. Praying very hard, we get back in the murderous Oso Rojo and start inching toward Tilaran. Within five minutes, the truck driver flashed us over. "It's taking too long," he said in Spanish. "I'll pull you." He retrieved a 5-foot chain, tied it (I didn't know huge chains could be tied) to both vehicles and began pulling us at about 10-15 mph. The grinding and banging was so loud, Kyle and I had to scream at each other to be heard. Soon, we gave up talking and just prayed for the seemingly endless 30 minutes it took the man to tow us.
He pulled into a gas station and jumped out. "It's taking too long. I have to go." We knew it was true. This man was on the clock and had just taken AT LEAST an hour to help us. We gave him some money for his guardian angelship and profusely thanked him, never even learning his name.
And then we looked around. A gas station with one attendant in an outside booth (the store part of the business was not open). Several middle-aged Ticos sat around playing cards, listening to the radio, and, in general, loitering. We were not in any town; this was so not Tilaran.
Starving, by this time it's 9pm and we'd eaten lunch at the road-side diner at 11, we ask the attendant if he can go in and get us food. He was very annoyed and yelled in Spanish about "how was he supposed to help us?" and "what could he do?" We ended up borrowing a phone card from a random loitering man to call the car rental place. "We'll be there in three hours." The delivery truck man had called and told them exactly where to find us (God bless him).
Once again, we found ourselves stuck. So we prayed some more. A car pulled up, driven by a friend of the station attendant, and he asked if the guy would go get us some food. "Yes, for 5 American dollars." It was not a hard decision. I gave him some money to purchase the food, completely ignorant of the conversion rates and how much I had handed over. We were sure he'd take the money and run. But, like another Good Samaritan, he returned in 30 minutes with a huge, greasy pepperoni pizza and a 3-liter of Coke.
In minutes, it was devoured. Lacking napkins, we used finished crossword puzzle pages to "clean" our hands. Momentarily satiated, we passed out in our stinky, broken car. We were filthy; having awakened at 6am for this glorious day, we traipsed in and out of the humidity taking pictures between driving long stretches. Having consumed this delicious pizza, we had nothing left to do but collapse, giving in to the utter exhaustion from the day.
And this is how Wednesday ended. Awaiting our "new" car, stranded at a nonfunctional gas station, completely relying on strangers at every turn to be generous and kind to a couple of disillusioned, dirty Americans.
04 November 2008
A picture
Purpose of this map is to give you a clue as to our location in Costa Rica and our ill-fated travels.I've pointed out our resort, in the upper-left corner: Base camp.
The airport (aeropuerto) just outside Liberia where we arrived and departed.
La Cruz, where we got groceries and gas, and which was the closest town to Base camp.
Towards the right side of the map, I denoted Lake Arenal and Volcan Arenal (the volcano), as well as La Fortuna, which was our original destination. The route that is highlighted shows were we traveled -- first on the south side, then around to the north.
There is a red dot for the Accident site, or Point of Breakdown for Oso Rojo (the Red Bear, so named was our Geo Tracker).
Tilaran and Tronadora are noted because they were small towns we passed through and the ones which we nearly returned to to find lodging before deciding to traverse all the way from the Accident site to La Fortuna.
Enjoy the visual.
ps. One last thing. Notice how close we were to Nicaragua. From the beach outside our resort, it seemed like we could see mountains in Nicaragua.
01 November 2008
Honeymoon Adventures, Take 3
I do not want to bore you with details, but this entire cross-cultural experience was mind-blowingly stretching, and thus good for me. We all get stuck in ruts, and mine, apparently, revolve around feeling safe and comfortable in my self-constructed boxes. I like to believe these boxes are impermeable, made of some sturdy metal or stone, but, in fact, I'm beginning to see they are composed of cardboard, or something with equal sogging and moulding potential.
Wednesday began bright and early with the sun (which rises around 5:30am). As Kyle ran down to the car to stow our over-night bag, he found it completely dead. The lights had been on all night. Undaunted, he asked the front desk if he could get a jump (this man is ever-resourceful, one reason I adore him). Sure, in about 30 minutes. Which, in Tico Time, indicates about 2 1/2 hours. Thus, our early morning, became a late-morning start.
Once jumped, we made great time in the good weather on the dirt, and then paved roads, back the way we'd come from the airport. We passed the two police checkpoints, where, once they saw (or heard) that we were gringos, they waved us on without question. We gassed up the Tracker in Liberia for about 45,000 Colones (indeed, this is why my conversion skills to Costa Rican currency did not work. Tens of thousands of what? How many dollars? I have no idea.). Then, the rains hit. Torrential, worse-than-we'd-yet-seen rains. The car wheels started pulling very oddly, only when Kyle removed his foot from the gas, and we had a few moments of hydroplaning on the ill-paved and -drained roads.
We found a roadside diner for lunch and experienced our first real problematic language-barrier. The menus were in Spanish, obviously, with no translation, and neither the woman running the diner, nor her daughter, could speak a word of English. I tried to find the names of some Spanish cuisine I know, but we ended up ordering stuff without knowing a thing about it. I got two tiny 5" tortillas with the most pungent, nearly stomach-turning cheese. They were cold. Kyle had ordered two plates of some slab of meat cooked with onions, a small salad with tomatoes, and some purply egg-salad-looking-thing in a side dish. We each exchanged one for one, so we each had a plate of meat and a plate of nasty-cheese and tortilla. The mystery meat was delicious and I kept reminding myself NOT to think of the fact that I didn't know where it came from. It's good, Lana. Focus on that.
Our journey this day took us toward the Volcano, one of the world's most active. Kyle was driving and so I trusted his planning-self to have mapped out the route we were to take. Indeed, he had. The shortest trip to the Volcano itself was by the road which traverses along the SOUTH shore of Lake Arenal, which lies to the west of the Volcano. The map, which indicated paved and unpaved roads all over the country, showed both the north and south routes were unpaved. Thus, we were not enticed North--the longer path--because, on the map, it looked identical to the southern path.
The torrential rain slowed to a drizzle, then lightened to fog, and, for a brief hour, the clouds lifted enough for us to see the rising giant before us. Vibrant plant life surrounded us at every bend, over every hill, on every vista, as far as we could see. A hundred shades and hues of greens and browns, flowers: red, yellow, purple, pink -- exploded from random places as well as small home gardens. The Tracker climbed the horrendously bumpy and pot-holed mountain roads with diligence. I couldn't help but compare the colors and hills with Ireland, and then, again when we passed a slow herd of cattle being tended by a single man at the back with a switch and a hat. Before we knew what was happening, we had climbed so high that it became hard to breathe, the oxygen was thinning and we were becoming slightly delirious.
As we followed random branching roads, we became lost a few times. Not every unpaved road that exists was the map, as could be expected, but the map itself didn't seem quite to scale and we often had a hard time determining where we were in reality and on the map.
The rain started up again around 4pm, and we were lost for the third or fourth time. The clay mud roads were beginning to be problematic and much steeper. When we stopped to ask directions, the first time we happened upon a utilities crew trying to fix a power line. The man had brilliantly blue eyes, which surprised me as most Latin Americans have daringly dark ones, and I suspected he might know some English. But he did not, and during our broken conversation, I realized he said that to get to the Volcano we had to go around the lake, that is, back the way we came and around the North shore. "At least an hour more," he said. "And, you are a very beautiful woman," at which point I blushed, said thank you, and joined Kyle in the car. We stopped in a small village, hoping a little shop owner could help us. The woman who emerged from the back was very old and had only a few teeth. When I showed her the map and asked how to get to the Volcano, I realized she couldn't read. She became very frustrated with my lack of Spanish conversation skills and closed her eyes, muttering, "Ah, Chiquita, chiquita, chiquita!" In her annoyance, she reiterated what the utility worker had said: go back, an hour more. "Derecha, derecha, derecha. No izquierda! Sola Derecha!" She was adamant that we only take Right turns, never a left, and we'd get to the Volcano in an hour.
Still unconvinced, since we had a map that showed a road going east toward our destination, we stopped one last time at a roadside store (the size of my guest room, which is to say, very small). A Tico youth who spoke excellent English explained it all to us. "There is a road, yeah, but you can't get there by car. Maybe by horse, but probably not this time of year with all the washouts and flooding. It's impassable." He gestured to a broken down bridge and we realized that was the way we'd been seeking. "You have to go around the lake, man, but that's only a couple hours more." Really, Kyle asked him, is it really just a couple hours. "No, ok, it's not. It's more like three." Which we took to mean at least four.
It was hard to believe we'd just spent four hours traipsing all over mountains, taking splendid pictures, and enjoying the beauty of this country, and we had to backtrack. A little aggravating. But that all dissipated when we reached the point where the south and north paths converged. What we found was the best paved road in all of Costa Rica. The north route was the way tourists traveled, and thus, they took very good care of it. Though still devoid of yellow or white lane markings, the paving was seamless and smooth.
Darkness descended and we continued with renewed joy. No more bouncing and jostling, bone-jarring chuckholes and boulders. We'd arrive late, yes, but the going would be easy. And food and a shower awaited us at the end. We were thrilled.
Or so we thought.
Wednesday began bright and early with the sun (which rises around 5:30am). As Kyle ran down to the car to stow our over-night bag, he found it completely dead. The lights had been on all night. Undaunted, he asked the front desk if he could get a jump (this man is ever-resourceful, one reason I adore him). Sure, in about 30 minutes. Which, in Tico Time, indicates about 2 1/2 hours. Thus, our early morning, became a late-morning start.
Once jumped, we made great time in the good weather on the dirt, and then paved roads, back the way we'd come from the airport. We passed the two police checkpoints, where, once they saw (or heard) that we were gringos, they waved us on without question. We gassed up the Tracker in Liberia for about 45,000 Colones (indeed, this is why my conversion skills to Costa Rican currency did not work. Tens of thousands of what? How many dollars? I have no idea.). Then, the rains hit. Torrential, worse-than-we'd-yet-seen rains. The car wheels started pulling very oddly, only when Kyle removed his foot from the gas, and we had a few moments of hydroplaning on the ill-paved and -drained roads.
We found a roadside diner for lunch and experienced our first real problematic language-barrier. The menus were in Spanish, obviously, with no translation, and neither the woman running the diner, nor her daughter, could speak a word of English. I tried to find the names of some Spanish cuisine I know, but we ended up ordering stuff without knowing a thing about it. I got two tiny 5" tortillas with the most pungent, nearly stomach-turning cheese. They were cold. Kyle had ordered two plates of some slab of meat cooked with onions, a small salad with tomatoes, and some purply egg-salad-looking-thing in a side dish. We each exchanged one for one, so we each had a plate of meat and a plate of nasty-cheese and tortilla. The mystery meat was delicious and I kept reminding myself NOT to think of the fact that I didn't know where it came from. It's good, Lana. Focus on that.
Our journey this day took us toward the Volcano, one of the world's most active. Kyle was driving and so I trusted his planning-self to have mapped out the route we were to take. Indeed, he had. The shortest trip to the Volcano itself was by the road which traverses along the SOUTH shore of Lake Arenal, which lies to the west of the Volcano. The map, which indicated paved and unpaved roads all over the country, showed both the north and south routes were unpaved. Thus, we were not enticed North--the longer path--because, on the map, it looked identical to the southern path.
The torrential rain slowed to a drizzle, then lightened to fog, and, for a brief hour, the clouds lifted enough for us to see the rising giant before us. Vibrant plant life surrounded us at every bend, over every hill, on every vista, as far as we could see. A hundred shades and hues of greens and browns, flowers: red, yellow, purple, pink -- exploded from random places as well as small home gardens. The Tracker climbed the horrendously bumpy and pot-holed mountain roads with diligence. I couldn't help but compare the colors and hills with Ireland, and then, again when we passed a slow herd of cattle being tended by a single man at the back with a switch and a hat. Before we knew what was happening, we had climbed so high that it became hard to breathe, the oxygen was thinning and we were becoming slightly delirious.
As we followed random branching roads, we became lost a few times. Not every unpaved road that exists was the map, as could be expected, but the map itself didn't seem quite to scale and we often had a hard time determining where we were in reality and on the map.
The rain started up again around 4pm, and we were lost for the third or fourth time. The clay mud roads were beginning to be problematic and much steeper. When we stopped to ask directions, the first time we happened upon a utilities crew trying to fix a power line. The man had brilliantly blue eyes, which surprised me as most Latin Americans have daringly dark ones, and I suspected he might know some English. But he did not, and during our broken conversation, I realized he said that to get to the Volcano we had to go around the lake, that is, back the way we came and around the North shore. "At least an hour more," he said. "And, you are a very beautiful woman," at which point I blushed, said thank you, and joined Kyle in the car. We stopped in a small village, hoping a little shop owner could help us. The woman who emerged from the back was very old and had only a few teeth. When I showed her the map and asked how to get to the Volcano, I realized she couldn't read. She became very frustrated with my lack of Spanish conversation skills and closed her eyes, muttering, "Ah, Chiquita, chiquita, chiquita!" In her annoyance, she reiterated what the utility worker had said: go back, an hour more. "Derecha, derecha, derecha. No izquierda! Sola Derecha!" She was adamant that we only take Right turns, never a left, and we'd get to the Volcano in an hour.
Still unconvinced, since we had a map that showed a road going east toward our destination, we stopped one last time at a roadside store (the size of my guest room, which is to say, very small). A Tico youth who spoke excellent English explained it all to us. "There is a road, yeah, but you can't get there by car. Maybe by horse, but probably not this time of year with all the washouts and flooding. It's impassable." He gestured to a broken down bridge and we realized that was the way we'd been seeking. "You have to go around the lake, man, but that's only a couple hours more." Really, Kyle asked him, is it really just a couple hours. "No, ok, it's not. It's more like three." Which we took to mean at least four.
It was hard to believe we'd just spent four hours traipsing all over mountains, taking splendid pictures, and enjoying the beauty of this country, and we had to backtrack. A little aggravating. But that all dissipated when we reached the point where the south and north paths converged. What we found was the best paved road in all of Costa Rica. The north route was the way tourists traveled, and thus, they took very good care of it. Though still devoid of yellow or white lane markings, the paving was seamless and smooth.
Darkness descended and we continued with renewed joy. No more bouncing and jostling, bone-jarring chuckholes and boulders. We'd arrive late, yes, but the going would be easy. And food and a shower awaited us at the end. We were thrilled.
Or so we thought.
Honeymoon Adventures, Installment #2
Recovering from the travel was essential, and we took our time in doing that. By Tuesday, we were ready to venture out to nearby beaches and explore our own little bay.
The problem was, by Tuesday, we hadn't realized that it began raining every day mid-morning. Once we showered and were ready to hit Playa Rojada, which was a few miles away, the sky was threatening rain. Immediately upon arrival, a downpour began, and though we abandoned efforts of beach-bumming it.
I wanted some cereal for breakfast, so we drove the 35-40 minutes to La Cruz, the nearest tiny town with one paved road, to find a grocery store. We stocked up on Fruit Loops, Pringles, and Fanta (a main reason I love Latin America--they always have Fanta).
Another guest at the hotel suggested we take a short hike up a jungle-covered small mountain next to our beach, so we decided, once it stopped raining in the late afternoon to try it out. Still a little leary of the numerous bugs in tropical climates, I was not thrilled about hiking through a jungle. But Kyle's sense of adventure yet again persuaded me to suck it up and join in the fun (what was fun for him, anyway). To get to the "trail" up this mountain, you had to cross an extremely dilapidated bridge in a mangrove thicket that went over a small stream draining into the bay. Very picturesque.
Kyle went first, naturally, and jumped because he thought he saw a tarantula-sized spider. Upon our return hike, we found it was a crab, but his reaction started off our journey with high apprehension. How many more HUGE spiders or insects or rodents would we encounter? He was hoping to see monkeys, but alas, they too proved elusive.
The views of the surrounding mountains (north--Nicaragua; south--more Costa Rica) from the look out points on this dense hike were awesome. This was the first we were seeing of the great beauty of Costa Rica, and even on cloud-covered afternoon, we could tell this place was splendid. The sun started setting on our way down, and considering we were inside a small jungle, it became very dark on the slippery, muddy roots and rocks that we had to tread upon. Twilight is one of the worst times of day for my poor vision, and I began panicking that I'd fall and break a leg. I couldn't imagine Kyle carrying me out of there.
As we cleaned up for dinner at the hotel restaurant (a place we'd become very familiar with), I noticed a growing number of large ants all over the room. Since all the doors had about a quarter-inch gap between the floor and the wood, I figured some bugs would live with us, but thiswas more than just "some". I investigated near the bed and saw the wall behind it swarming; I pushed the mattress at an angle to the box springs and found, to my horror, fifteen ants in a few inches of space: in the sheets, between the mattresses, even under the bed on the floor.
You must understand, dear reader, how much I detest bugs. As a child, I sang a song called, "I Hate Bugs" often, giving concerts on the hearth to my mom as she made dinner in the kitchen with my red and yellow and blue Sony tape player with mic. For the second time that day, it was getting hard for me to breathe and I tried to explain to Kyle that I couldn't sleep here anymore. If we stayed, I would not sleep at all; I'd feel these ants crawling all over all night long. After investigating and killing about 30, himself, he agreed that we couldn't stay in the room any longer. We requested, and were graciously given, a new room after dinner.
Dinner that evening proved another learning experience for us on two levels. 1) The rainy season = lots of bugs. 2) Never order any meat rare-ish in a foreign country. The open-air restaurant, which was lovely during the day, was full of mosuitoes. I counted 20 bites when we settled into our new room. Kyle ordered a steak, of sorts, medium-rare, and we found it so raw even he could not eat it.
Our Tuesday ended with us packing for our inland excursion, to last two days. We planned to visit Volcan Arenal and some hot springs, as well as zipline-it through the Monteverde Cloud Forest. With the alarm set for 6:15am, we hit the hay early in our very clean, very ant-free new room.
The problem was, by Tuesday, we hadn't realized that it began raining every day mid-morning. Once we showered and were ready to hit Playa Rojada, which was a few miles away, the sky was threatening rain. Immediately upon arrival, a downpour began, and though we abandoned efforts of beach-bumming it.
I wanted some cereal for breakfast, so we drove the 35-40 minutes to La Cruz, the nearest tiny town with one paved road, to find a grocery store. We stocked up on Fruit Loops, Pringles, and Fanta (a main reason I love Latin America--they always have Fanta).
Another guest at the hotel suggested we take a short hike up a jungle-covered small mountain next to our beach, so we decided, once it stopped raining in the late afternoon to try it out. Still a little leary of the numerous bugs in tropical climates, I was not thrilled about hiking through a jungle. But Kyle's sense of adventure yet again persuaded me to suck it up and join in the fun (what was fun for him, anyway). To get to the "trail" up this mountain, you had to cross an extremely dilapidated bridge in a mangrove thicket that went over a small stream draining into the bay. Very picturesque.
Kyle went first, naturally, and jumped because he thought he saw a tarantula-sized spider. Upon our return hike, we found it was a crab, but his reaction started off our journey with high apprehension. How many more HUGE spiders or insects or rodents would we encounter? He was hoping to see monkeys, but alas, they too proved elusive.
The views of the surrounding mountains (north--Nicaragua; south--more Costa Rica) from the look out points on this dense hike were awesome. This was the first we were seeing of the great beauty of Costa Rica, and even on cloud-covered afternoon, we could tell this place was splendid. The sun started setting on our way down, and considering we were inside a small jungle, it became very dark on the slippery, muddy roots and rocks that we had to tread upon. Twilight is one of the worst times of day for my poor vision, and I began panicking that I'd fall and break a leg. I couldn't imagine Kyle carrying me out of there.
As we cleaned up for dinner at the hotel restaurant (a place we'd become very familiar with), I noticed a growing number of large ants all over the room. Since all the doors had about a quarter-inch gap between the floor and the wood, I figured some bugs would live with us, but thiswas more than just "some". I investigated near the bed and saw the wall behind it swarming; I pushed the mattress at an angle to the box springs and found, to my horror, fifteen ants in a few inches of space: in the sheets, between the mattresses, even under the bed on the floor.
You must understand, dear reader, how much I detest bugs. As a child, I sang a song called, "I Hate Bugs" often, giving concerts on the hearth to my mom as she made dinner in the kitchen with my red and yellow and blue Sony tape player with mic. For the second time that day, it was getting hard for me to breathe and I tried to explain to Kyle that I couldn't sleep here anymore. If we stayed, I would not sleep at all; I'd feel these ants crawling all over all night long. After investigating and killing about 30, himself, he agreed that we couldn't stay in the room any longer. We requested, and were graciously given, a new room after dinner.
Dinner that evening proved another learning experience for us on two levels. 1) The rainy season = lots of bugs. 2) Never order any meat rare-ish in a foreign country. The open-air restaurant, which was lovely during the day, was full of mosuitoes. I counted 20 bites when we settled into our new room. Kyle ordered a steak, of sorts, medium-rare, and we found it so raw even he could not eat it.
Our Tuesday ended with us packing for our inland excursion, to last two days. We planned to visit Volcan Arenal and some hot springs, as well as zipline-it through the Monteverde Cloud Forest. With the alarm set for 6:15am, we hit the hay early in our very clean, very ant-free new room.
How it started...
Our Honeymoon stories are incredible, as in you won't believe them. Grandma said yesterday, "When you told me you had stories, I knew they would be long, but I didn't know they'd be so..." And with that, she was speechless.
We stayed at the reception so much longer than we expected. But we were having too much fun on the most perfect day of the year with so many of the people we love, leaving seemed like it would cause the bubble to burst. It didn't, of course, but having never embarked on a honeymoon adventure before that moment, I had no idea what to expect.
We ran through a raining arch of lavender buds, all harvested, processed, and transported by Leslie from Washington state. After driving approximately 1.75 miles in a very nice Lexus, we stopped by his parents to change and pick up my car and then head to Indy. The plan was to order room service, go to sleep early, and be ready to leave the hotel for the airport by 3:45am.
We arrived at the hotel near 9pm, completely and utterly drained, but beaming. We had delicious food -- me, chicken; Kyle, steak -- and passed out shortly thereafter. 3am came early, and by 4:30, when we'd checked our bags and passed through security, we could hardly stand up. This day of travel turned out to be one of the longest of our lives.
Indy to Chicago, O'Hare, to Houston (for 6 hours), to Liberia, Costa Rica. We disembarked around 7:30pm Costa Rica time (somewhere about 2 hours off from Indiana time) and we knew that at least 1.5 hours of driving stood between us and much-needed sleep.
Our car rental company had this deal where they'd bring our car to the airport and we could leave it there when we left, even though they were based out of San Jose, a mere 4-hour drive from Liberia. Upon exiting the tiny airport, we found a man with a placard reading "Kyle Wilson (Lana)". We had to sign some paperwork, but with 10 minutes, we were on our way. This tiny man explained that we had to take him to the bus station in Liberia (not part of the original deal), but we did, because he'd just driven 4 hours to drop our car off and had to wait another 45 minutes for our late plane.
It was raining. Which we expected, but rainy, dark, strange roads in a strange car make for interesting driving. We were starving, tired, and cranky. Kyle got a burger and fries from a Burger King in a food mall in Liberia and off we went, North on Hwy 1 toward La Cruz.
At some points, the farther north we got, there was a green canopy over the road that you could barely make out in the darkness and rain. Once we found La Cruz (roughly the size of Upland), it was dirt, bumpy roads for the next 35 minutes.
At nine-thirty we unfolded ourselves from the little Geo Tracker, which we later dubbed oso rojo or the Red Bear. In fifteen minutes we were in our room, which was much bigger than I had anticipated. It's ceiling was hard wood with great lines. We had a king-sized bed and a full kitchen (not that we had anything to cook, but the fridge was nice to use). The balcony overlooked the bay, but we'd figure that out in the morning when the sun began shining around 5:30a.m.
Kyle immediately began unpacking his suitcase into a drawer and hung up some shirts; I took out my contacts, brushed my teeth and laid down, nearly comatose from the extensive day of travel following the most monumentous day of my life -- so many emotions and feelings and experiences. I could not handle them all and passed out shortly after collapsing on the bed.
Welcome!
Goodnight.
We stayed at the reception so much longer than we expected. But we were having too much fun on the most perfect day of the year with so many of the people we love, leaving seemed like it would cause the bubble to burst. It didn't, of course, but having never embarked on a honeymoon adventure before that moment, I had no idea what to expect.
We ran through a raining arch of lavender buds, all harvested, processed, and transported by Leslie from Washington state. After driving approximately 1.75 miles in a very nice Lexus, we stopped by his parents to change and pick up my car and then head to Indy. The plan was to order room service, go to sleep early, and be ready to leave the hotel for the airport by 3:45am.
We arrived at the hotel near 9pm, completely and utterly drained, but beaming. We had delicious food -- me, chicken; Kyle, steak -- and passed out shortly thereafter. 3am came early, and by 4:30, when we'd checked our bags and passed through security, we could hardly stand up. This day of travel turned out to be one of the longest of our lives.
Indy to Chicago, O'Hare, to Houston (for 6 hours), to Liberia, Costa Rica. We disembarked around 7:30pm Costa Rica time (somewhere about 2 hours off from Indiana time) and we knew that at least 1.5 hours of driving stood between us and much-needed sleep.
Our car rental company had this deal where they'd bring our car to the airport and we could leave it there when we left, even though they were based out of San Jose, a mere 4-hour drive from Liberia. Upon exiting the tiny airport, we found a man with a placard reading "Kyle Wilson (Lana)". We had to sign some paperwork, but with 10 minutes, we were on our way. This tiny man explained that we had to take him to the bus station in Liberia (not part of the original deal), but we did, because he'd just driven 4 hours to drop our car off and had to wait another 45 minutes for our late plane.
It was raining. Which we expected, but rainy, dark, strange roads in a strange car make for interesting driving. We were starving, tired, and cranky. Kyle got a burger and fries from a Burger King in a food mall in Liberia and off we went, North on Hwy 1 toward La Cruz.
At some points, the farther north we got, there was a green canopy over the road that you could barely make out in the darkness and rain. Once we found La Cruz (roughly the size of Upland), it was dirt, bumpy roads for the next 35 minutes.
At nine-thirty we unfolded ourselves from the little Geo Tracker, which we later dubbed oso rojo or the Red Bear. In fifteen minutes we were in our room, which was much bigger than I had anticipated. It's ceiling was hard wood with great lines. We had a king-sized bed and a full kitchen (not that we had anything to cook, but the fridge was nice to use). The balcony overlooked the bay, but we'd figure that out in the morning when the sun began shining around 5:30a.m.
Kyle immediately began unpacking his suitcase into a drawer and hung up some shirts; I took out my contacts, brushed my teeth and laid down, nearly comatose from the extensive day of travel following the most monumentous day of my life -- so many emotions and feelings and experiences. I could not handle them all and passed out shortly after collapsing on the bed.
Welcome!
Goodnight.
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