Costa Rica on $500 per day

 Down to the banana republics, down to the tropical sun; Where the ex-patriot American is hoping to have some fun.

—Jimmy Buffett

 

It wasn’t just the fact the bus was exceeding the speed limit by 50 k.p.h., nor the smell of its burning brakes. It wasn’t the Chiquita Banana semis speeding abreast directly at us, nor the 3,000-foot drop off the shoulderless road that worried me; after all, the valium had kicked in and I was as relaxed as hot Jello. I think what was holding my attention was watching the driver trying to close a date with the pretty sefiorita behind him. It was the fact that he was turned completely around in his seat in doing so that bothered me. Occassionally, he would glance back at the horrifying situation about to befall us, make an insane decision and turn back to the girl. Now, I’m not really afraid of dying, I just don’t want to be there when it happens.

We were dropping at a high rate of speed from San Jose to Limon, a port town on the Caribbean side of Costa Rica. I had heard that Limon was a hot and nasty place, but I believe that to be a gross understatement. Huge containers of imported goods and exported bananas were stacked for miles among them. A shnty town of rotted wood and rusty tin shacks leaned against each other for support.

Under a sweltering sky, the smell of open sewer and rotten fruit created a most tropical atmosphere. A mango-encrusted dog staggered onto the street, where it was immediately squashed by a Chiquita Banana semi. Two naked black boys scurried into the traffic and gleefully snatched it up. Dog tacos tonight,” grinned the driver, and I had no doubt he was telling the truth.

The streets teemed with people, black, brown and yellow. Ii seems that Jamaicans were brough over in the 1800s to work the banana plantations because of theii malaria resistance. Trouble is Jamaicans hate work, so Chinese were brought in to replace them. Everyone stayed and intermingled, creating a most unique blend. The girls are absolutely beautiful; almond eyes, cafe-ole skin. They move sensuously to the blasting reggae and smile easily. The men are muscular black and sweating and not quite as happy to see my honky ass.

Limon is not the place for a family vacation; in fact, it would be a brave or stupid tourist that walked certain streets of Limon, especially at night. The only beautiful part of Limon is the graveyard,as if confirming that life after death may in fact be a better place.

We headed south on a road that has just recently been restored after a devastating earthquake last year. Huge teak and mahogany trees lay like pick-up sticks along the beaches, flotsam and trash piled amongst them.

“Muy lindo,” said the guy next to me (“very beautiful”). I stared at the mess, trying to see through his eyes.

But failing...

We crossed narrow temporary bridges replacing the earthquake-crumbled originals. I looked to the left, where hundreds of locals squealed and splashed in the murky water. I looked to the right to behold a dozen crocodiles basking on the banks.

We drove through lush jungles of thriving and earthquake-toppled trees, creating an impenetrable tangle of vegetation

— vines hanging to greasy brown pools of stagnant water with an occasional crocodile slowly moving through. The place had an unhealthy, sinister feel.

“For Sale,” “See View” signs rose frequently from this malignant swamp. Not surprisingly, really; with the gringo land rush on, all of Costa Rica is for sale. By Crested Butte standards, land is cheap. Gringos can own out-right a small beach-front house for $30,000 U.S., for example.

But, as with everything. there are pitfalls to paradise. It’s hot, damn hot, and humid. Everything rots, from your house to your skin. Your beach-front house will be crawling with vermin, from sand fleas and snakes to rats and crabs the size of footballs. And one other small problem... if unattended for a month, your house will disappear. Dismantled by your friendly locals and sold as building materials. One girl I met even bought back her same materials and rebuilt again, only to have great hunks disappear if she left for a weekend.

nightmare. There appeared to be one building, a paint-peeled, ramshackle, two-story edifice that looked something between a rotten Miss Kitty’s Saloon and a Bogart movie. Across the dirt street, the town “park,” complete with dead trees, vultures and a pedestal. Someone had stolen the monument years ago.

But it was the crowd that shocked me. A motley crew of wild and filthy-looking international hippies mingled with huge dread-locked Rastas sporting hairdos that would have stunned even Medusa.

Reggae blasted as the sullen crowd inspected the newcomers (myself and two French girls with more hair on their legs than their heads). I shouldered my pack and trudged down the dusty road. Tiny shacks with signs like “Resterante — We don’t need no menu we got everything” lined the street; or “You Need a Haircut —I panted my way into the

Adialante Lounge and stood sweating at the front desk.

“Chew got a reservation, mang?”

“No, but I’ve got cash.”

“Why chew got no reservation, mang, you on the run from de law?”

“Yeah, I figured this would be a good place to hide.”

“Chew got dat right, mang. sign here.”

I collapsed on the bed and reflected on how I’d gotten here.

It had been an inebriated evening in the charismatic bar of the Dunn Inn, San Jose. I had weasled in on a crusty group of expatriots and consumed tale after ale, after tale, after ale... At some point during the night, the story of the “Island Where Women Rule” was mumbled by a puffy-faced relic named “John Smith.”

“Bullshit!” chorused his compatriates.

John mumbled something and stared at a fly spot.

“Hey, John,” I offered,

“I’m a travel writer for the Crested Butte Chronicle...”

“Never heard of it.”

“Well, anyway. I think this Island of Ruling Women thing might hold some interest to my readers. How ‘bout telling me a bit more?”

“Well,” said John, “I’ve never found it myself, although they say it’s somewhere in the Boca de Torres Archipelago...”

“That’s right, ‘Mouth of the Bull’. Bullshit!” yelled the drunken gang.

“Well, have you guys ever heard of this place?” I asked them..

“Well, yeah... We’ve heard of it. A few locals know where it is but won’t talk. I think they’re afraid to talk. They believe these women keep their men in cages, in chains, and can have as many as they like at any time. The men are virtual slaves. And the thought of that to a macho Latin man is horrifying. It’s all bullshit, though...”

“Is not!” yelled John and passed out, head hitting the table like a ripe mango.

“Well, where is this Boca de Torres?” I asked the remaining crew.

“Well, son, it’s off the northeast corner of Panama. The only way there is a small banana train from the tip of Costa Rica. But there are 200 islands out there. It could be any one of them. The place is hot, full of bugs and the big, black banana man.

Turning into a dirt road, the sign said Cauhita 2K. This was my destination for the night and I had heard it was remote and beautiful. What would I find? I would no doubt be the only white man... we bounced to a stop in a cloud of dust; the driver yelled “Cauhita!”

“This ain’t no Club Med, sonny...”

I headed out at the crack of dawn, bound for the northern coast of Panama and the “Island Where Women Rule.”

to be con tinued...

 

by Steve Church

 

You know how it is, when the heat and humidity seeps into your brain. It soaks the snowbird’s energy and “lays his ambitions at bay.” It happenedto me in Cahuita, It wasn’t that Cahuita is a vacation paradise, it was simply too hot to move. And in fact no one did move.., until dark. Cahuita came alive at night. There was one place, Miss Kitty’s Saloon. Two 12-year-old bartenders served a crowd of international reprobates and local dread-lock Rastas.

There was long hair, pink hair, make-up, and then there were the girls. There was a cigar-smoking Texan wanting to import trailer houses to Costa Rica... and bring back turtle skin boots. There were French sporting what I hope is not the next fashion statement — unless you like the Bozo the Clown look. There were white girls trying to meet black guys. Not hard, really, seeing how the local guys live for this. Fantasies fulfilled, the relationships soon dissolved in a severe communication gap.

There were drunken campesifios carrying on conversations with Swedish brain surgeons. A Japanese girl was taking pictures. A dozen languages were being butchered as the crowd spilled onto the porch, then into the streets. The whole damn town was partying.

I was hanging with a banker from Frankfurt Amol. Arnol looked like a banker from Frankfurt, but he wasn’t acting like one. Arnol wanted to get stoned; surely one of these friendly Rasta guys could help him out. I personally have a phobia against Third World prisons, told him so, and the last I saw Amol, he was leaving with a wild-looking, all teeth and dread-lock Rasta man.

I ran into Arnol six weeks laterat the San Jose airport; this is what had happened that night...

The Frankfurt banker and Rasta man stepped out behind the bar. Rasta man threw his head forward in an avalanche of dread locks. “De splif in de dreads, mon.”

The banker pawed through the man’s never-washed hair until he found a small parcel containing three marijuana cigarettes. The banker paid Rasta man, who vanished like smoke. The banker took two steps and was seized by the Cahuita Police Department. Arnol spent the next five days in a cement cell with no bed and no toilet (1 don’t have to elaborate on that); they fed him one cup of coffee a day. Period. On the fifth day, Amol happened to lean against the door... It opened!! It hadn’t even been locked!! Arnol walked out to the front desk and asked if he could leave.

“Sure, Gringo, you can leave, just come back with $500.” He did.

At the southern border of town, Cahuita National Park offers jungle trails and white sand beaches stretching to Panama that are virtually deserted. The park was formed to protect a particularly beautiful stretch of reef; however, the insecticides used upriver by banana plantations have killed said reef. Nevertheless, after Crested Butte’s brutal winter, to string a hammock between palm trees and gaze upon 50 miles of beach and jungle was beautiful in-deed. I spent three days hanging and staring (sometimes I sits and thinks, sometimes I just sits). Finally in the relatively coolness of one morning, I was able to muster enough ambition to climb aboard a local bus headed to Panama. Local buses are Bluebird school buses bought from the States in the fifties. The hard fiberglass seats are still spaced for third graders, causing the six foot two frame to ride like a pretzel, knees in ears. The Sardine Saunas they’re called, with bodies jammed in a way-too-familiar closeness.

A little girl threw up six inches behind me, a baby soiled his diapers six inches in front of me. In the lOO degree heat we were becoming entirely too familiar. A few modifications had been made to the bus, however. The suspension system had been replaced with 4 by 4 posts, and on this road of potholes with the odd flat spot, the bus was sending its passengers flying. A tiny stereo had been added to~the beat with its bouncing occupants. The pretty seflorita be-

side me had been attempting to apply lipstick for the past hour. She stared into a tiny mirror and stabbed at her face when she suspected a flat spot. Flying two feet off the seat every 30 seconds had -created quite a challenge, but she was very good. Like performing brain surgery during a plane crash, she finally was satisfied and moved on to her fingernails. Not just painting them, mind you, no, but painting tiny flowers on each one. Polish remover had added a new twist to the bus’ reeking interior. I was totally impressed, however, and told her so. She smiled slightly, so as not to crack the lipstick, I suspect.

A young girl across the aisle was balancing a boom box the size of a washing machine on one knee, and a small green parrot in a plastic bag on her other. The parrot was gasping for breath and making horrible choking noises.

“Is the bird sick?” I asked.

“The bird is well,” she replied.

“Then the bird must be sad,” I said.

“The bird is happy,” she said and tossed her coke can out the window.

We passed great hunks of jungle burned flat to provide space for a few banana trees. Thousands of species destroyed to grow one. At one such opening, I observed a giant sloth hanging upside down from the top wire of a barbed wire

fence, trying to pitifully make its way to some remaining forest. At its sluggish rate, either the sun or a local’s machete would fall him long before he reached his beloved trees. Sloths have been observed passing through towns, ever so slowly, hanging from power lines. They are almost human in the face, only cuter. Ecuador Indians sell sloth heads as shrunken human heads. Just trying to get ahead, they say.

We bounced through

miles and miles of banana trees.

plants, to be loaded on Chiquita semis and driven to the coast. Thousands of people sweat under a blazing sun for $7.00 per day, a good wage, I was told.

We bounced to a stop in Sixola, pronounced Sexola, it seemed to confirm this Island of Women thing... A rusting steel bridge separates Costa Rica and Panama. The customs agent was absent on the Costa Rica side and I was pretty sure I’d need an exit stamp.

“You don’t need no stinking stamp!” yelled one out of the hundreds of people walking across the bridge. I wasn’t altogether sure about this but crossed the bridge into Panama.

“You don’t have a exit

stamp,”            Panama Customs said. I crossed the bridge back

to Costa Rica. The agent had reappeared; he slammed my passport with an exit stamp.

I crossed the bridge back to Panama.

“So... Mr. Church... what is your purpose in visiting Panama?”

It has been my experience at these border crossings, the less one can appear like a raving lunatic the better. I decided not to mention the ‘Island of Ruling Women,” men in cages, all that...

Journalist is another word best left unspoken in many of these places. “Tourist, sir.” “I’ve heard so many wonderful things about your country.” I lied.

“Yes. It is a lovely country, you will have a wonderful time, and from me and all the citizens of Panama we are so happy you have visited us.” He lied. “Now, Mr. Church, if you will kindly step into the next room we shall... tear you apart.”

Which is exactly what happened. They removed my boots, went through my pockets, pulled everything from my pack. I figured this to be as good a time as any to unload the inflatable doll, so I offered her over, upon discovery. They were enchanted.

They went through the first aid kit and squeezed the toothpaste from its tube. (Have you any idea what it’s like trying to get hot toothpaste back in the tube?)

When I had finished putting it all back together, a guard waved me out with his M16.

“Welcome to Panama.”

He grinned.

 

by Steve Church

 

Changuinola Panama is a huge swap meet. The streets are lined shoulder to taco with every type of cheap import goods stand. It’s like driving through K-Mart, in a taxi. To hell with these local buses, it was too hot to be throwing up all day; I’d hired a cab and was making my way to Almirante on the Caribbean coast of Panama.

I had been informed that the last boat to Bocas Island left at 4:00 and I wanted to be on that boat... desperately Almirante, a banana port town, will not soon be visited by Robin Leach’s Romantic Getaways. Although a few colonial mansions left over from the United Fruit Co. days grace the waterfront, so do a sad collection of tin shacks built on stilts over a low tide, black mud swamp. Gang planks on shaky poles provide walkways to outhouses and neighbors. A sad fetid squalor.

I located the ferry a wooden speedboat, and noticed the price list: Bocas Island $3.00.

“That’ll be $10.00,” said the captain, Sniveley Whiplash look-alike.

“The sign says $3.00,” I pointed out.

“That’s true, seftor, however we don’t have a full boat, so we may not go today, it s rough out there, the price of gas, the...”

“The gringo effect?” I helped him out.

“Exactly,” said Sniveley.

I paid him $7.00 and off we went to the whooping delight of a small crowd of wharf rats that had followed the exchange.

We passed below Chiquita Banana Ships, anchored, waiting for their green and sweaty load. Then into the huge bay, known as Bocas De Tow — The Mouth of the Bull. It was in this bay, on one of its 200 islands, the mysterious “Island Where Women Rule” floated in a distant mist. Islands appeared and disappeared as rain squalls passed over them. Flat mangrove islands, high jungle-covered islands, palm trees and white beach islands; they stretched over the horizon as we sped through them towards the main settlement, on Isla Colon, simply called Bocas.

To step onto the dilapidated dock of Bocas is to step 100 years back in time. The once-proud center of

United Fruit Co., Bocas was a colonial masterpiece, complete with gazebo in the square.

United Fruit pulled out 20 years ago, leaving a virtual ghost town. Magnificent Victorian buildings lean against each other for support in their old age as they slowly sink to their knees.

Probably 3000 people (a collection of Black, Indian, Spanish, and every combination thereof —where once was 30,000) live here now.

“I am bery, bery hot, my friend. Could you direct me to the hotel?” (I liked the place immediately; it had character, lots of it.) “Dat be Miz Pagets Botel Thomas.”

They pointed down the street.

At the end of main street, the Botel Thomas continued right out into the sea, built on stilts; one could watch sharks cruise below the floor boards. Ceiling fans stirred the air; I was surprised not to see Ernest Hemingway sitting on the veranda. Or Bogart in the bar.

Miss Paget is an enchanting English Lady of about 75 who rides a motorcycle, and who was now sitting with her feet up on the front desk, having a good laugh with the three black maids, who also had their feet on the desk. It seemed very laid back.

“Simply marvelous to have you, Mr. Chuch. Dreadfully sorry about your dinner.”

“My dinner, ma’m?” I asked.

“The one you won’t be eating,” she said.

“You must order by noon in order to have dinner by 6:00, give us time to catch the bloody thing, you know how it is in the territories, heh, my dear boy?”

A couple of missionaries were sent here to straighten things up but the first fell in love with the natives (literally) was caught by his wife and killed himself in shame. The second was secretly buying lottery tickets with the collection plate. That all worked well until he actually won; $7,000.00 to be exact. His conscience became his judge, he locked himself in his home and eventually died of shame, never having spent a dime. Religion caught on, though, and on Sunday mom the Baptist church rocks.

“Can I sit, moo?” I looked up to see a blue-eyed black man.

“Fur sure,” I invited.

He introduced himself as Robert. Every other tooth in Robert’s head was gold. He looked like a chainsaw when he smiled.

Then I made the first of two mistakes I would make on Bocas... I bought him a beer.

“So jus what brung yoself to Bocas, Mr. Chuch?” asked Robert.

Then I made the second mistake... “I’m looking for an island where women rule.” He stared at me as if my head were on fire.

“A ISLAND WHERE DA WOMAN DA BOSS??” shrieked a toothless old woman I hadn’t even noticed. “AH ISLAND, SNORT, WHERE DA, CACKLE, WOMAN DA BOSS?? WHEEZE, SNORT, mumble,WHEEZE!!” She stumbled off down the street snorting and mumbling to herself. “HA!” she sceamed.

“Well, never mind that, Robert, where you from?” Hoping to change the subject.

“Dat be a long story mon.” He took a long pull of Lowenbrau and eyed me wearily.

They call to me as I trudge down the center of a dusty main street, vultures waddling out of my way. “Hey, big boy! Where at you coming from? Mon o mon, you look bery, bery hot, big boy. Lordy, di~ boy look warm! Come have a

I assured her I’d be fine, dropped off my gear and headed downtown for a frosty one. I sat on the veranda of the Bahia Hotel and read an ancient dusty history of Bocas Islands.

Seems Columbus landed here in 1502 and repaired his boats. Seems that pirate Henry Morgan buried treasure here in the 1600s, then it seems a prisoner on a road gang found it in 1908. But the more he dug, the more it sank. Soon the entire town was digging and yelling “Hold de ting. moni~ but the huge jar of treasure simply sank out of site. Even though a huge hole still exists, I think it’s a bunch of crap personally.

Dem school girls is being raped in broad daylight, mon, on de steps of de school dere, mon. They teefing (stealing) from you on de streets, you don’t give ‘em nutin de stick you (knife you). So I be layin’ in meown house, with meown wife, sleepin’ like a baby. when dem boys dem wrap toilet paper about me bare feet, den light it up!!”

“What boys? What? They lit your feet on fire?” I asked.

“Dem Columbians, mon, dat’s wha I tellin’ you, dems bad, bad boys.” Robert ordered two more beers on my tab and went on.

“So Ah wakes up, sees feet bumin’, I sits up, de smash me head in with a rock, den I donn wake up till de next day. De teef my money, my TV, my passport. De even teef my wife!!”

“They stole your wife??”

“Dat’s wha I tellin you!”

“Well, did you get her back? Did you find her?” I asked.

“Sure, I get her back, but she all used up by den.”

“Oh... yeah... well I guess she would be...” I stammered.

“So Ah figures hell wid dis Panama, Ah’s gonna walk to America!!”

“You’re going to walk to America?” I stared at him.

“What you want to do? Fly first class? I tellin you I got no money.” He ordered two beers on my tab.

“So I walks and hitches and ting to Limon and...”

“The road ends. Nothing but jungle for 600 miles, the Miskito Coast,” I ventured.

“Dat’s wha I tellin you, big boy... and Ah gets lost.., lost for 31 days, wonderin’ about the jimgle, eatin’ rats and snakes and ting... raw. Drinkin’ swamp water and ting, all my cloths be tore off from de plants, mon, I bleedin’, and clingin’ to trees all night listenin’ to de tigers howlin’ fo me. It’s bery hard goin’ cause dat ol’ hurricane Joanna licked everyting low. So dere trees and ting lyin’ all de place. Finally Ah’s had it, covered wid leeches and crabs startin’ to chew me up .. Ah’s gonna die,” he downs his beer and orders another on my tab and continues.

“Den Ah sees me sweet wife, shebe tellin’ me to go to de Palm trees. I walks and walks tillah sees dem palms dem, and below dem trees is a hut wid food, cloths, machetes, all dem tings. I figures de be mine, my vision and all.”

“Absolutely,” I agreed.

“So den I walk on through Honduras, Belize, Guatemala, den Mexico. When Ah gets to de bridge before Larado Ah sposed to get off and sneak under de bridge, but I falls asleep on de bus and wake up wid mister U.S. Immigration man shakin’ me.”

“What happened then?”

“De fly me back to Colon.., after five months of walkin’, I home again.”

“My God, Robert, that’s some story.”

“Dat’s wha I’m tellin’ you.”

Robert suggested we change bars, and led me to a dark, tilting joint full of teeth. “Dis here’s Mr. Chuch!” yelled Robert “And Mr. Chuch be lookin’ for an island where de women de boss.” They stared at me like ET was standing in my shoes. “Oh great,” I mumbled. “And Mr. Chuch be buyin’ all de drinks!

 

to be continued...

 

by Steve Church

 

The canoe was 30 feet long, carved by chainsaw from one log. The log had cost Felix $100, he would sell it beautifully finished and gaily painted for $1,000. It was pushed slowly by a ancient 8h outboard. Felix. die owner was a black, Spanish, Indian-looking fellow, with a knife scar that ran from his ear to his nose. The kind of scar you don’t ask about I had hired Felix for $25 per day to search for die ‘Island Where Women Rule’, although I had opted at this time not to tell him about this place, not wanting to scare him off ... we were simply looking at islands.”

 

We departed Isla Colon and headed out to sea toward a spit called Gresi Cay about a mile away. In the middle of the crossing a smail head bobbed on the swells. It wasa dog! It looked just like Benji and was swimming toward Green Cay in a detennmed manner. It seemed not even to notice our passing.

“What in the world is that dog doing out here in the middle of the ocean?” I asked Felix.

“Dat be Romeo, see Romeo got him a girlfriend, Juliet, ever here on Green Cay, but Romeo’s master lives over on Isla Colon. So every morning when Romeo’s boss goes to work Romeo swims over to Green Cay, spends de day with his lady then swims home before de boss get there.”

For the next week I would join everyone that could afford a beer in Docas on the veranda of the Dolel Thomas at sunset to cheer Romeo’s slow progress back across the bay. It took him an hour each way. He had

been making thecrossing every single day for two years. It was the finest display of true love I have ever seen, being shark infested, water and all.

We stopped in at Bastimentos, a beautiful island that is home to about 600 blacks. At 9am the place was rocking. Dogs barked, roosters crowed, reggae blasted over a tiny settlement of bnghdy painted huts. These homes leanedat impossible angles on rotted stilts, the largest being perhaps 300 sq ft.and each holding a half dozen smiling inhabitants. They waved from the doorways calling greetings and friendly barbs to their waking neighbors. No one seemed to be working at anything. “Hey Felix, you land de big one! Hey Big Boy, you look hot mon!!”  Shiney-faced children came running to see this large sweating white man with his underwear on his head. Oh yeah, the underwear. It seemed that I’d forgotten my hat, and being only eight degrees from the equator my brains were being boiled. I had stood in the canoe, dropped my shorts, then much to Felix’s consternation, dropped my boxers and pulled them on my head. I was glad I hadn’t yet mentioned the ‘Island of Ruling Women’ thing to him.

We walked through town with Felix calling out names. “HEY MOJO! dat be my half brother. Hey blindman!!, dat be my cousin, he ain’t really blind ... HEY DERE MAMA!! She ain’t really my mama...”

Felix knew, orwas related to, everyone on the island. Bastimentos was one of those lost places that time and prejudices have passed by, a beautiful, friendly fly-spot on the map.

We stopped by several islands inhabited by Guaymie Indians. The villages consisted of 20-30 bamboo and thatch huts, set on stilts and looking as stoneage as a village can look. No paint, plastic, or MTV here, just the lowly T-shirt to remind you of the 20th century. These places were as quiet as a library, no music, no barking dogs, no yelling inhabitants. We’d pass groups of Guaymie and mumble a greeting which in turn was mumbled back. Upon the offer of a smile, their broad Mayan faces would literally crack in half with teeth, but only for a moment. The Indian Islands were as different from the black as night and day. It was late in the afternoon, I was be-coming a white-fried tomato. We were weaving in and about a series of tiny mangrove islands. The water was about six feet deep and crystal clear.

“Boy oh boy, whata spot for old mister Bonefish,” I was thinking, when suddenly the surface exploded with a swirling of knife-shaped tailfins.

 

“TARPON!!” Iscreamed, shocking the bejesus out of Felix.

“Sabado!” he said. “No good for nuthin!”

“No good to eat sure, but the finest game fish in the world!”

“Huh?” said Felix.

“Yeah, you just hook em, fight the hell out of em and let them go!”

Felix had never heard anything as stupid before, but didn’t want to upset his $25 per day client either...

“Datsde dumbest ting I’ve ever heard,” he said.

 

“Oh no it’s not,” I assured him.”Now I’m gonna get a fishing pole ho Paget, and some beer and you bring something to eat and pick me up about 4pm tomorrow morning, hey Felix?”

 

“Dats crazy mon.”

 

Felix was there at 4 pm and we headed out in the pitch blackness. As our eyes became accustomed to the dark, it appeared we were moving across an inky oil slick. We were motoring slowly off Panama’s coast like dandesting pirates as the eastern sky west to purple, to blue, to silver. The still unseen sun was lightingthetopsof stratocumulus clouds. Their billowing 20,000 foot heights now glowing pink against the silver sky. Majic.

Felix cut the engine, and we coasted into the mangroves. The noises of the jungle awakening, drifted across the water. The hum of a million insects slowly being warmed, the enthusiastic banter of a million birds, snatching up those warming insects. One such feathered friend was literally being over-whelmed with the prospect of a new day.
Starting with a slow series of peeps, it would cresend into loud honks, then losing all sense of reason, shrieking, which he carried on for 30 seconds before fading into loud gasps.

 

But as far as jungle noises go, I don’t believe you can top the Howler Monkey A Howler is large, about 70 lbs and so is its mouth. Its mouth is so big in fact, that when he opens it wide, his head disappears. A Howler sounds like amplified gorillas mating ... or a Saint Bernard in heat ... or Tarzan having smashed his thumb with a framing hammer. Many jungle travelers will recount times that the Howler will let one pass directly below before exploding with an impressive bellow. This is why jungle travelers always carry extra toilet paper.

Suddenly a huge silver body rolled to the surface, Tarpon, must have been 100 lbs, five-foot long. I cast a popper at him myself...nothing. I cast again ... nothing, and again, and again ... I relaxed KABOOM!! The fish exploded like a patriot missile, my pole bent double and jerked me off balance, I reared back putting all of my weight, (substantial) against the quivering pole. “POW!” The hook popped out of the Tarpon’s bone-hard mouth. “WHACK!” As the

pole smashed into my nose. “ZING!” The huge popper lure shot by my ear as I pitched backward into the canoe landing on my back in the bilge water at Felix’s feet.

“Yessiree!!” said Felix,

“Dat sure do look like fun.”

It was five minutes before I had gained enough composure to try again. My heart was pounding, my knees had turned to oatmeal, I wasn’t sure I wanted to hook this beast or not.

I got four more strikes that morning each one hitting with the rush of an electrical shock, and each one slipping the hook luckily.

I collapsed and inquired as to lunch. Felix handed over a huge filet of fish funny ... didn’t taste like fish.

“Hey Felix, just what is this we’re eating?”

“Dat be manatee, bery tasty, heh?”

“Ah ... well ... I suppose its not bad ... what else you got in there?”

“Raw turtle eggs!” He beamed, tossing me a leathery egg the size of a tennis ball.

“Dat’ll put lead in de old pencil!” grinned Felix.

“There’s nothing wrong with the old pencil, and besides Felix, both the turtle and the manatee are endangered species!” “What’s dat mean?”

“It means there aren’t many left!”

“Well, dere two less now,” Felix slurped, an egg yolk ran down his chin.

“Yeah, I suppose so,” I stared at the egg.

 

to be continued

 

by Steve Church

 

From the only official building on Bocas (the one with the machine gun holes), waddled the only official, (immigration man), and he was headed straight for me. I was on my afternoon stroll down the dusty main street when I’d noticed him trying to intercept me. He looked exactly like a fat pit bull, with short little legs that barely reached the ground, huge stomach had more chins than a Chinese none book. He even panted like a terrier.

“I couldn’t help but notice, sir, you have been on our island for a week now and have not come to see me,” he squinted piggish eyes.

“I do apologize, sir, but who are you, and why should I have come to see you,” I pretended not to notice the gold shoulder pads, plentiful fruit salad, and huge immigration emblem on his crisp white shirt.

“I’m the head of Immigration on Bocas and it is necessary that all foreigners check in with me upon arrival. Now shall we return to my office and check your papers?”

He led me into a cement office, green paint, metal desk, he sat, I stood. Behind him hung six Polaroid pictures of pit bull terriers, fighters. Dog fights are legal in Panama, and so are chicken fights, and drunken Indian fights. There is heavy betting on each.

“Tu familia?” I pointed to the photos.

He glared at me for a second, the joke may have backfired...

“Yes, my little bambinos,” he stared lovingly at them. “Now, your passport?”

He opened the first page, studied it like he was studying Miss July.

“So ... Mr. Chuch ... from Crested Butt ... Mr. Chuch ... Mr. Chuch

He was shaking his head sadly as if he already doubted my papers.

“So just what are you doing on Bocas ... Mr. Chuch?”

“I’m a tourist sir, here for the fishing.”

“I understand differently Mr. Chuch, I understand you are here to buy an island, and let only women on this island. I understand you will sell these women male slaves, to be kept in cages, to be used as one might a ... whore.”

“Who told you all this?” Things had gotten a little twisted small town and all.

“I have my sources, and I don’t have to tell you Mr. Chuch that the males on Bocas are not enthusiastic about this.”

“How bout the females?” I asked.

“Mr. Chuch, we have laws against this type of thing in Panama!”

“But sir, I understand prostitution is legal in Panama, and would this not be the same thing, only from the female side of...”

“MR. CHUCH!! You Americans with your strange behavior have been pushing Panama around for quite some time. That is why we have now made it necessary for all Americans to obtain a visa before entering Panama.”

He pulled a thick and dusty book from a shelf and thumbed through it till he found what he wanted. “Ah yes, American ...“ His fat finger followed across the page, “Needs Visa.”

I leaned forward to examine this...

WHAM!! He slammed the book shut. “So Mr. Chuch, we have two choices, you can return to San Jose to obtain your visa from the ambassador for $10.00 or...”

“Or?” I was pretty sure

what was coming next

“Or you can obtain it from me for $20.00, being that you are already in the country.”

“Well sir, I suppose I shall obtain it from you.

“You are a very smart man, Mr. Chuch.”

“Oh really, you flatter me...” I paid him the $20, he smashed a stamp in my passport, as you might smash a poisonous spider.

“Now Mr. Chuch, I have given you five days to finish your ‘fishing’ trip and get out of Panama and I suggest you forget all about this ‘Island Of Ruling Women’ Thing.”

I knew then there was a cover-up ... something he didn’t want me to find, heck it would tak three days just to reach the border, that meant only two more days on Bocas. There was something going on here, some dark secret...

I spent the afternoon pouring over a dusty chart of Boca De Toro Archipelago. Finally I had it, apart from the other islands, in the middle of nowhere, existed a small island called Zapatilla.

It was a good 10 miles from its nearest neighbor; this was it.

I found Felix at the dark fisherman’s bar and pulled him aside.

“Felix, tell me, are there any ... people’ living on Zapatilla?”

His eyes narrowed, he glanced nervously around, “No” he said.

Oh sure, I thought. “Hey I’d like to go out there tomorrow.”

“What chew wanna go dere fo?” his scar was turning purple.

“I just want to look around.”

“Its bery, bery far out dere,it gonna cost you a lot more money.”

Oh sure, I thought.

“That’s OK, bring extra gas, bring some food ... never mind that, I’ll bring the food, (I’d had enough manatee),

 and pick me up at 5am, we’ll get an early start.

We headed out in the pitch dark. As the eastern sky slowly turned silver I stood in the bow, eyes squinting the horizon, like George Washington crossing that river. What would I find, would yours truly be the first white man to discover the inysterious ‘Island Where Women Rule? Would they accept my gifts of two filthy bandanas and some dental floss, or would they strip me naked, tie me to a palm tree and leap about laughing hysterically screaming “ITS TRUE!! ITS

TRUE!!” Would they be in awe of this large tomato-colored, sweating gringo from Hollywood, Colorado, or would they simply treat me like so much chopped liver ... Felix had s certainly been right about one thing, it was bery bery far. I was getting fried. I cut a hole for my I head in an empty beer case and put it on like shoulder pads, I pulled my boxers over my head and gnawed on a piece of dirt-flavored cheese. Yessir this was adventure!

We bobbed about like a bath-tub duck in that sweltering sea until finally Zapatilla loomed on the horizon. It was a poster-perfect island I could soon see, with a coral reef protecting it from ocean r swells, the water surrounding Zapatilla was as smooth and clear as glass. White sand beaches with gently swaying palm trees made Zapatilla as pretty a island as exists anywhere.

We shot through a break in the reef, glided across the lagoon, and beached the canoe on the trackless sand. Like a cardboard Columbus I leapt from the boat landing on my face. Seems the old sea legs were having a rough time supporting my fried girth or maybe it was the 23 beers it had taken for the crossing. There was one left for our return voyage and by God it was mine, (I’d have to keep an eye on Felix and that ice chest).

Felix had been right about another thing, the island was deserted, empty as a schoolboys head, the lack of bare-breastedAmazonian women, was at once apparent. We explored this exotic little spit carefully but there was no evidence of a tribe of women, no phone bills, no glamour magazines, no toe-nail polish or mace.

We took a cooling swim and clambered aboard the dugout for the long ride back. About an hour into the voyage a rain-squall motoring along the southern horizon moved out to sea and revealed

a mystical blue volcano, shuddering in heat waves, 50 miles away.

“THAR SHE BLOWS!!” I screamed, scaring the pee-wadin out of the scar-faced captain.

“WHAT IS THAT??”

“Datbede’Jaw of the Bull’, de south-most point of de bay.”

“Anybody live there?” I asked, although I knew this was the place I had searched so long for.

“Well I ain’t sure, see nobody dis side go down dere, too far, too dangerous, but sometime we see fires at night, and sometime when de wind is right we hears dem ol monkeys from down dere, screamin and a hollerin. It kind of a spooky place, dat one.” He looked away.

So there it was, the mysterious ‘Island Where Women Ruie’, 50 miles south, floating in a shimmering mirage ... and me with only three days left on my visa. Oh well, if I was going to an Island of Women I was gonna need a few things, like my checkbook. I would have to return to the Chronicle & Pilot and grovel like a dog at the feet of that cheap penny-pinching, tight-fisted editor Mr. Lee Ervin. We would need to launch a full-scale exploration, and knowing Ervin and women, he would probably insist on coming along ... all I need... the editor checking the facts...

 

I left Bocas with a heavy heart, (and lighter wallet) the following morning. This was a special place in the world, no tourists, no bars on the windows, no crack cocaine, meaning no thefts. As old Mr. Ramsey had told me from his porch rocker one sultry afternoon, “If a boy teef here, it shame de whole family, and dat be worse dan death.”

There is a lesson to be learned here.

On the ferry to the mainland, a huge black man was belting out a baritone calypso tune; “Oh bar~ana man, you got d~ big banana in de land!!” All the women on board belted out the chorus “Dats Right Amen oh lordy.”

The rest of us clapped and laughed along. Life is good.

On the bus to the boarder, a rat-faced grease ball was yelling across the aisle: “Hey mang, don worry I speek English, I been to de Broncs ... a beautiful place de Broncs

I nodded that yes indeed the Broncs was a beautiful place. He had a pencil-thin mustache that twitched nervously like a poisoned rodent. It looked like he had combed his hair with the Exxon Valdez, and he looked like he should be named Raoul.

“I live in Limon now mang, Limon is a beautiful place.” I nodded that yes indeed

Limon was a beautiful place.

“Hey mang mabey you should come to Limon wid me then Raoul said something that I’ve actually never heard in dozens of trips south of the border, Raoul said, “and maybe you want to buy my seester.”

 

 

 

Costa Rica: On three hundred dollars a day

by Steve Church

 

 

“‘It’s a jungle out there.”

— Dr. Livingstone

 

Belford’s cold reptilian eyes stared unblinking into mine. “It’ not the 128 species of snakes, at. though 18 are poisonous, and 13 will attack. It’s not so much the lightning, which kills many peo~ each year out there, some weird magnetic field in Corcovada Park can’t even get radio sometimes. guy would be wise to stay out ot the ocean, rip tides and sharks, and the rivers are full of crocs an camiens. I saw one 24-footer chase a guy down the beach, catch him and rip him to shreds.”

“Did you try to help the guy?” I asked.

“I was in my plane above him, couldn’t do a thing ... now, watch out for bandits, and if walking the beach atnight keep your flashlight on. The jaguars feed on turtles at night and you wouldn’t want to suprise them...some of them get to 400 pounds in Corcovado. And don’t turn your flashlight on in the jun gle at night, it attracts the snakes All this is basic jungle knowledg though...”

“Well consider that you re talking to two idiots, I told Belford.

“I don’t think he’s having ax trouble with that,” said my brother Tom.

 

We were back at the Dunn Inn preparing to spend two weeks ir the largest Pacific rain forest left, the Corcovado National Park. The dapper Mr. Dunn himself, convinced that the Church Bros would not survive five minutes the jungle (no bars) had introduced us to Belford. Belford is ox of Costa Rica’s reknowned jungl experts, he owns huge tracts of land, flies his own plane, and hax trained many armies, including the Contras, in the art of jungle fighting.

Belford is very intense, like being two feet away from an agitated cobra, if he makes a sudder movement, your heart stops.

“I’ve found the picked-clean bones of many friends in that jungle and I mean picked clean in two weeks,” his eyes burned into mine.

“AH ... I’m ... ah ... sorry about that ... ah..Belford,” I stammered.

“So where was I...Oh yeah, there’s 375,000 species of insects and spiders, and most of them bite. There’s plants out there that are so toxic that one touch will kill you, but none of these are your worst worry...”

He took a pull on his Cuba Libra, you could have heard a snake blink.I couldn’t stand it...

“Well ... what is our worst worry?”

I was already worried.

“The pigs,” he said.

“The pigs?” we said.

“Wild pigs, they run in packs of 200 to 400, they’re not afraid of anything, will attack and eat anything. How do you think they got rid of all those political prisoners in El Salvador, Nicaragua, and Columbia?”

“How?” I asked not grasping the obvious

“THEY FED THEM TO THE PIGS!!” Belford was in my face now, I was smashed against the back of the chair like a bug on a windshield.
“NOT A TRACE LEFT, THEY ATE BONES and ALL!!” Sweat poured off him, his eyes were volcanic. and “THEY WERE THROWN TO THE PIGS LIVE!!!”

 

“Ah ... lookie here Bellford could I get you another drink?”

“Sorry ... so here’s what you do, dimb a tree, not a small one either, they’ll uproot it to get ya. You will hear them clicking their teeth before you’ll see them, also you’ll d smell them. Some victims are literally overwhelmed with the smell and simply pass out; nasty little buggers.”

“Now, if you go in the ocean, throw a coconut in first to see what the current is doing. Be very carefull picking up firewood, spiders and scorpions. If you get bit by a scorpion, piss on it. You must take salt tablets as you two will undoubtbly sweat substantially, (well maybe my brother and I were a little flabby), it’s gonna be 100 degrees and 99 percent humidity, you can dehydrate and die in hours. This is the hottest time of year. by the way.”

 

“If you’re in lightning, don’t move, if you cross a river, tape your pant legs tight, all kinds of orifice swimming creatures. If you get cut, the jaws of the leaf cutter ant make good sutchers. One bite from the bullet ant can numb your arm enough for major surgery, and in case of snake bite, and there are 500 bites a year here, don’t panic...”

I love this part, why would you possibly panic if a 10-foot jumping pit viper leapt from the bush and sank three-inch fangs into your leg, venom pumping into your bloodstream as it coiled about your body ... hell milk-toast, that’s no reason to panic.

 

“Immobilize the bitten limb,” Belford went on ,“and get to a doctor.”

 

What was wrong with that picture, I was thinking, but held my tongue.

“The main thing is to travel light, you’re gonna be walking through soft sand and clinging clay mud, and it’s gonna be hot remember, you gotta be tough if you’re gonna be stupid.”

 

Belford wished us luck. Although we had spent two months planning this expedition, two months of separating everything but the minimum bare essentials, two months jettisoning more and more till only survival gear remained, we still appeared to be 450 pounds overweight. We pawed through 450 pounds of state-of-the-art survival stuff and decided we could get by leaving 300 pounds of it at the Dunn Inn. After all, we’re no dummies when it comes to travel ... we thought.

 

 

by Steve Church

 

“Well, senors, I don’t know where you’re going, but if you’re going on Sanza, you’re not going today.” The pretty airline receptionist smiled at my brother and me standing in a pool of sweat, decked but in LL Bean’s latest jungle attire.

“The DC3 is broken; maybe it’s fixed by tomorrow.”

“You mean you only have one plane?” I asked.

“Our other plane had a ‘little’ accident.”

Oh yeah, now I remembered, a year ago Sanza’s other plane, a square Spanish-built number dubbed “the flying coffin,~ had lived up to its name and had augured into a mountain, killing all 23 aboard, what they call a “little” accident in the business.

 

There are two airlines in Costa Rica and Sanza is 1/4 the price of its competitor, Travelair. The ma-son? The equipment, simply put.

“I personally think it’s much better to have broken down here than half way there,” said my brother, who is horrified of flying and had been dreading this part of the trip for two months.

“However, senors~, if you care to get to Golfito today, and not take the 12-hour bus, I happen to have a friend with a taxi...”

“We’ll take it,” said Tom.

“Hold the phone,” I interjected.

“We can’t taxi across Costa Rica!”

“Why not? said Tom.

Twenty minutes later, Roberto Garcia, in his cherry red, chopped, lowered, dingle-balled, airconditioned Toyota, slid to the front door of Oficina de Sanza. He leapt out; he was maybe 16.

“Oh Lord.... maybe we should wait for the plane,”I mumbled.

“No problano, amigos, chew wanna get to Golfito in four hours, chew go with the Garcia Bros.” He was fervently stuffing our gear in the trunk.

 

“Four hours? I thought it was a 12-hour trip? What brother? You’re not on drugs now, are you, Roberto?” I was grilling him as we tore off.

“We gonna pick him up now; I med him to help drive, it buy far.”

We pulled over in San Jose’s ghetto and loaded on beer, fried pig skins and Carlos, Roberto’s brother. He was maybe 14.

The brothers crossed themselves, and off we went. It was soon very apparent the Garcia brothers were out to set the new land speed record across Costa Rica. Roberto was clenched to the wheel like paint; he looked as though he was undoing his first bra, the picture of concentration. Carlos sat next to him, shoving lit cigarettes, fried pig skins and beer into his brother’s mouth. Carlos was also offering suggestions and odds on the next maneuver...

“NOW!” he would scream.

We would pull out behind a passing semi and stay there, blind, for four to six min...

In the back seat, frisbee-eyed, the Church Bros chorused, “aaahhhAAAAHHHHIIIEEE!!”

The Garcia brothers would get very agitated if something impeded our momentum, say other car accidents, or retching Church Bros, but somehow just before dark, in just four hours, we pulled into Golfito, alive, if badly shaken. We paid the Garcia brothers $100 and said we hoped to never see them again.

We had the Garcias drop us about five miles north of Golfito, on a jungle-covered beach, Captain Tom’s Shipwreck Hotel.

 

Captain Tom lost his leg to a land mine on Iwo Jima decades ago. No more use to the army, he had been discharged with a small pension. Captain Tom bought a war-torn PT 109 and sailed south. For years he used it as a tug, pulling all manner of barges from South to Central America. The relic engines gave up the ghost in 1950 and Tom crashed into a place called P!aya Cacao, Costa Rica. He couldn’t fix his boat. “You would have been amazed at the lack of PT109 parts here then,” said Tom, so he just stayed, buying one hectare (2.5 acres) for $25.

“Looking back I should have bought two hectares,” said Tom. He winched the boat ashore, put it on blocks and turned it into a hotel.

“We’re thinking about opening a chain of ‘em,” said Tom. He sat ramrod straight, bushy eyebrows and piercing blue eyes giving him that bird of prey look. He was very happy to have company and listened intently. His “hotel” offered

rooms from the penthouse (the bridge) for $12 to the bilge at $6. Tom had not left his beach since 1950 and had no intention of doing so. The world went on and Captain Tom could care less.

 

Golfito is a charismatic jungle port town, complete with jungle port town characters. A motley collection of Americans, expatriots of one war or another (WWII, the Vietnam war, the Drug war), have their own little world here. The only reason they have to-talk to an outsider at all is to try and sell them some real estate. It is a shaky proposition, as these guys will sell you anything, whether they own it or not. When buying real estate in Costa Rica, it is best to hire a dozen lawyers, all chocking up on each other. Nervous guys with naress like Awesome Owen and Bad Bob (not his real name, as this guy is so bad) approached us in the local cantina. “We wanna buy some rain forest,” we told them.

 

Owen picked us up at 8:00 next morning. We picked up Owen’s snake-boy (the kid that goes ahead) and headed into the jungle. We were looking at a 350-acre piece of jungle paradise complete with 300-foot trees and four waterfalls. The price was $75,000.

“You know, bro, 90% of the forest is gone now in Costa Rica; in another three years there will be no trees outside of a couple parks. We could start ‘The Church Bros Save the Rainforest Foundation.’ We build some basic huts, keep it real basic...”

“Except the large-breasted Tica guides,” said Tom.

“Yeah, except for them, then we sell our best friends shares, say 1000 shares at $5000.00 We net $4.5 million and save the forest!!”

“Plus if that fails, we could always log it off” said Tom.

Our ex-marine real estate agent took us back to a lawyar’s office; we told Owen to offer $50,000 and waited outside. Great Spanish profanities bellowed from the room. Owen returned.

“The price has gone up a little.” he said.

“How little?” we asked.

 “It is now $250,000,” he said.

“That’s a little, Owen.” The Church Bros Save the Rainforest evaporated into thick air.

That evening we sat in the Balcon, a bar owned by an ex-Oregonian sporting a “We Serve Spotted Owl” t-shirt; he approached us.

“Hey Church Bros, those two Tica girls there want to talk to tell you they’re guides...whatever that means.”

 

Costa Rica on three hundred dollars a day: part 3

 

by Steve church

 

The sea was flatter than Olive Oil’s chest the morning we crossed from Golfito to Puerto Jimenez. The only break in the calm of Golfo Duke were seabirds kamikazing sardines, and the dolphins. A pod of 50 dolphins had been rolling lazily off our port bow, but when we approached in the tiny ferry their curiosity got the better of them and they now circled our boat, leaping in the air in squeaking joy, rolling alongside, one eye on the strange human occupants not three feet away, and surfing the bow wave. They were effortlessly keeping up with our 12 knots, their sleek bodies propelled by some unseen force, then with the slightest flick of tail, the smiling mammals would rocket away, leaving us feeling very boorish and inept.

We stepped onto the decrepit Puerto Jimenez dock, shouldered our packs, took two steps, and the rainy season started. In three seconds it was raining dogs and cats, pitchforks and buckets; drops the size of mangos were splattering on our foreheads as we tore down the dock.

A row of humble fishermen’s homes lined the waterfront at dock’s end. It was into the first one with an open door we raced. Three brown children, their mouths agape with rice, beans, and terror, ran yelping from the room. A portly sef~ora waddled from the kitchen and stared at us... we stared back, communication made impossible by the deafening rain on the tin roof. She said nothing and backed out of the room. Her eyes said it all... who were these large, soaked white men in her living room? Were they there to kill her and steal the children? Or worse, were they moving in?

Left alone, we dismantled our soaked gear and spread it about th room to dry, the rain roared on the roof, wary eyes peered from darkened rooms, we settled in. Finally the storm passed and we gathered our things. I stepped into the dark kitchen to thank our hostess. She was backed against the wall like a cornered peccary; she clenched a huge skillet in both hands.

“Thank you for the dry place,’ I offered and held a 50-colone note towards her.”

“MADRE DE DIOS!!” she exclaimed with relieved delight.

Although 50 colones is only about 40 cents, it would be the equivalent of handing someone $50 in the U.S. for letting them stand in the front room for 20 minutes.

“MADRE DE DIOS’.! MOTHER OF GOD!!” she was squealing as we left them.

“MADRE DE DIOS!!”

“Think we may have over-tipped?” asked my brother.

Puerto Jimenez looks like a Third World Crested Butte. Dirt main street with swinging door saloons and benches occupied by scruffy locals. We located a spotles~ room on the beach for $12 and headed next door to the bar. One could actually live quite cheap in Costa Rica if one didn’t drink, but at 100 degrees and 99% humidity, the non-drinking man is rare... I don’t believe I met one in two months, in fact. But problems arise e when the unsupervised ex-patriot battling intense heat and mild boredom can’t stop drinking, and Costa Rica, as all the banana republics, has its share of drowned dreams.

We were sucking down a couple of Imperials as the two green parrots, sitting on our shoulders, carried on a lively discussion in Spanish, when suddenly the lights went out. Blocking out the sun, a huge hippie towered over us. He had a blond ponytail to his waist and “U.S. Marines” tattooed up hi~ tree-trunk arms. He was huge; the

guy needed his own zip code.

“My name’s Terrible Terry, but you can call me Terremoto, the Earthquake,” he boomed.

“Whatever you say,” we chimed like the Vienna Boys Choir.

“And you must be the Church Bros?” Terremoto thundered.

“Whatever you say,” we chirped.

“I understand you boys are interested in a little real estate!”

“Whatever you think is best!” we squeaked. I’ve got to get this guy back to Gillespie at CB Land

Sales, I was thinking...

“Great, I’ll pick you up at 8:00 in the morn!” the Earthquake bellowed and slapped me on the back; my teeth rattled like a marimba band. He stomped off, the cantina shaking in his wake.

‘These realtors are getting as bad as that horde in the Butte,” said Tom.

“You got that right, bro, we gotta get to the jungle... where it’s safe!”

We drank up and strolled down Puerto Jimenez’s frontier-looking main street. Being the only town on the cattle- and gold-rich Osa Peninsula, the place is Dodge City, Saturday night. There is at least one shootout a month, with the only sheriff being killed in the last one. The good people of Puerto Jimenez chose to elect a 12-year-old orphan boy as the new sheriff.

“We figured nobody would shoot the kid,” they said.

In order to enter Corcovado Park, it is necessary to register with the Park Service. It was into this office we now raced, not quite outrunning the afternoon deluge. The rain pounded a deafening roar on the tin roof.

“WE’D LIKE TO CAMP IN THE PARK!!” I screamed at the warden.

‘THERE IS NO CAMPING IN THE PARK!!” he screamed back.

There was obviously some mistake.

“WE ARE PROFESSIONAL JOURNALISTS WITH THE CRESTED BUTTE CHRONICLE!”

“NEVER HEARD OF IT!” he yelled back.

“WE ARE PROFESSIONAL CAMPERS WITH PROFESSIONAL GEAR!!” That should do it, I thought.

“IT IS FAR TOO DANGEROUS TO CAMP, YOU MUST REACH THE RANGER STATIONS EACH NIGHT!!” Veins were starting to pop from his brow.

Sweat rolled down my forehead, beaded on my nose and dripped on his desk. My brother and I looked at each other... We had spent two months and $2,000 on state-of-the-art camping stuff and lugged it 8,000 miles for nothing? We had been extremely misinformed.

 

The ranger, in an attempt to keep his desk dry, led us to a huge wall map. There are four stations scattered about the massive park; we were assured they were an “easy” eight-hour hike apart. I didn’t like the sound of this — in 100 degrees, nothing is easy. Somehow the words eight hours, hike and easy should not be in the same sentence, I was thinking.

The ranger went on to say that if we failed to make a station, a search party would commence searching the next day...

“WHAT HAPPENS IF YOU CAN’T MAKE IT??” I shouted.

He shrugged.

“The pigs,” said Tom, “they throw you to the pigs!”

We paid our entry, told him we would enter in the morning as soon as we could line up a ride the 30 kilometers to the park’s border. He picked up the shortwave radio and screamed to the first station, Sirena, that we were on our way... manana~.

That afternoon, we were ouffitted for our jungle adventure. Two bottles of rum (for snakebite), two plastic Snoopy daypacks (to carry the rum), and two umbrellas for shade... dainty floral print numbers... the only ones they had. This was not exactly Stanley and Living-stone across Africa... I just hoped we wouldn’t run into someone we knew, dressed like twin 200-pound four year olds and all.

We returned to our hotel and sifted through 250 pounds of bare essential survival gear.

“I guess I won’t need this inflatable doll,” said Tom.

“Nor the solar blender, or this food, or this water filter, or this stupid $150.00 LL Bean jungle hammock, or these maps...” We stored it all. We had gone across Costa Rica like Santa Claus leaving great bags of goodies wherever we went; we were now reduced to a filthy pair of shorts, Snoopy day pack and two bottles of rum. Exactly how we should have come in the first place.

As the sun sank into the Pacific, we sat on the porch and watched two crabs trying to push and drag a huge papaya across the beach.

“Lookie those stupid crabs... too-much-stuff syndrome,” said Tom.

“Fools,” said I.

-To be continued

 

Costa Rica on $300 per day: part 4

 

by Steve Chuich

 

The jungles of Central Airierica cover 0.5 percent of the world’s surface, yet they are home to eight percent of the world’s plants, 10 percent of all animal species arid 15 percent of all birds. In El Salvador there are onLy two parks; the rest of the country has long since been denuded. One of these parks, the 12,000-acre El Imposible, is home to more species than the entire continental U.S.

 

Twelve thousand acres, by the way, is equivalent to half the are. dad~ated to roads and parking in Yellowstone. We spend millions of dollars in America each year protecting our bird species, yet 200 of these species fly to Central America to winter. What do we do for them? We sell El Salvador toxic ash for road building; Chiquita Banana will have destroyed 6O,000 acres of rainforest in Costa Rica alone by next year; the pesticides used will have killed numerous rivers and reefs by then. The president of Nicaragua has sold logging rights on 667,000 acies of its rain forest to Taiwan, which destroyed its forests years ago. Honduras has cut a deal with Stone Container of Delaware for a 40-year logging operation on the Mosquito Coast. Central Amer. ica’s foreign debt is $20 billion... they have to deal... with the only thing left.

 

Central America’s population is expected to double to 60 million in the next 18 years, creating tremendous pressure on what is left of the forest. When I asked school-age kids in Costa Rica what they wanted to be what they grew up, the overwhelming answers were cattle ranchers, miners and banana farmers. There is no ecology being taught to this day. Despite its deserved reputation for park creation, Costa Rica also has the highest rate of deforestation in the hemisphere. We figured we better go see it before it was all gone.

 

Corcovado National Park. at 100,000 acres, is the largest chunk of Pacific rain forest left. The land surrounding Corcovado has been slashed and burned for cattle ranches right up to its borders. Once the soil is exposed, it can actually only support one cow per three to four acres, being so thin and all. Within a few years, erosion has turned the land into a worthless red-clay war zone. As in a war zone, armed guards patrol the boundaries, looking for poachers and gold miners. All roads loading to the park have military stops.

We hired a cab... well, really a pile of bolts driving in formation... to take us the 30 kilometers from Puerto Jimenez to the park’s “gate”.  Actually, a tin shack selling fried pigskin and pop.

 

We paid the cabbie, shouldered our plastic Snoopy day packs, popped open the dainty floral print umbrellas, and approached a couple of salty campasinos perched in the shack.

“Which way to the trail?”

“There es no trail, senor~.” Were they laughing at us or with us?

“Como?” I said, which means “Huh?”

“You walk down the beech, amigo.”

They were about to explode; I think it was the umbrellas.

 

“Oh, yeah, we knew that,” and off we went.

 

It was very, very hot.

This was it, the big one, as we trudged across burning black-sand Corcovado Park, 108,022 acres of primary rain forest... with 37O,000 species of bugs, 125 species of reptiles, 500 kinds of trees and two over-weight, sweating white boys from Colorado.

I shook my throbbing head malaria attack? Hallucination? I looked again... it was gone. We trudged on. Luckily, we were in peak physical condtion from having skied twice last winter, as the soft, burning sand might have discouraged weaker duo.

 

We had gone about two miles, I was out of water, my head was pounding, my calves were being stretched over hot coals. A sign hung from a flowering alamendro tree: “WELCOME TO CORCOVADO PARK.”

This came as a bit of a surprise as I assumed we were halfway across it, you see.

We approached the ranger station as a uniformed guard eyed us warily. We peeled the plastic packs

plastered to our backs and folded the floral parasols. I eyed an algae-covered sink.

 

“May I wash up?”I asked.

He nodded.

The green sink was nailed to the outside of the station; over it hung a shelf containing the rangers’ toiletries. Oils and powders.

I stuck my throbbing head under the shelf, turned on the water and splashed a baked face. I suppose my eyes were about three inches from the slimy drain when the lizard came shooting up out of it.     

The thing’s head was as wide as the drain itself and incredibly snake-like.

“AAAHHHIIEEE!!” I screamed, my head slamming into the shelf and launching it from the station’s wall. Oils and powders flew about the yard. My brother and the guard stared at me, obviously concerned...

“LIZARD!!” I screamed at them.

When my knees would support me again, we were led inside to a large wall map. The guard pointed with a macaw feather. “Now, it is best to walk this secton on a falling tide so the sand will be hard, easy waiking,” he explained.

“What is it now?” we asked.

“Rising,” he said.

“Wouldn’t have it any other way,” we said.

“Now, you must make it past these six kilometers of cliffs before the tide is entirely in.”

“Or?” we said.

“Or you will drown.”

“Well, don’t sugar-coat it,” we advised him.

“Now here the trail cuts into the jungle; it is easy to lose it.”

“Well, is it marked?” we asked.

“More or less,” be said.

“Now, when you get to the Rio Claro, do not attempt to cross at high tide, it’s filled with sharks, and don’t cross at low tide, it’s full of crocodiles.”

“So?” we stared at him.

“So you must cut into the jungle and go up river till you can cross safely.”

My brother looked like a steamed melon, sweat poured from me like a fountain

“Walk in the park, eh?”

We warily filled our canteens at “The Sink” and headed down the left toward a roaring pacific surf, a 10-foot washing machine of a surf. No swimming. On the right a veritable green cliff of vegetation. Great flowering jaccarundi and almendro, gavilan and croc abulls. Great long vines, both creepers and Jeepers, hung a hundred feet to the jungle’s rotted floor. Even above the roaring surf, one could hear screams and howls from that gloomy wall. And it was only 10:00 in the morning; imagine what midnight sounded like? The heat was a live thing.., constricting the breath from me...

 

“Break,” I croaked.

 

We climbed 20 feet into the jungle and collapsed on a log.

We were drenched, panting like dogs, when...

 

“Hey, lookie there, a ‘Christ lizard,’ and a big at that!”

I went on whether he wanted to hear it or not. “The ‘Jesus Christ lizard,’ called so for its ability to walk on water; it actually is running very, very fast. The large fins on it’s back act as solar panels, warming the beast and enabling him to move fast. He is 250 million years old and one can see from his huge hind legs that birds did in fact evolve from lizards. The Christ lizard can also swim like an otter, and walk along the river bottom.”

I gasped for breath the lizard was walking like a 3 1/2-doot4ong T-Rex toward us about 20 feet away.

 

“That’s a stupid name for a lizard,” said Tom. “Why not call it a...”

Suddenly the creature broke and ran...straight at us...

 

“JESUS CHRIST!!!” We screamed, flipping over backwards off the log. The beast was doing about 75 m.p.h. when it dove between my brother’s legs, into its hole, under the log.

 

Yep, a walk in the park...

 

-To be continued

 

Costa Rica on $300 per day; part v

 

by Steve Church

 

The cotamundi is an animal apparently thrown together as an afterthought. The poor beast is a collection of spare parts from a dozen different creatures. It has a long, flexible rat-like, nose. The head of a dog, but the ears of a cat. The body of a raccoon, the legs of an armadillo, the feet and claws of a bear, and the long stripped tail of a polecat. There is one rooting for grubs not three feet off the trail. We pass unnoticed ... the cotamundi also seems to have gotten the eyes of a bat.

We flush a number of curassow, a large turkey-type bird, that is extremely nervous ... and with good reason ... not only is the curassow very tasty, it has an tin-fortunate habit of picking up stones for its craw. The heavier stones the better ... in fact gold nuggets work especially well. So not only does the curassow make a fine meal, it just might make you rich. A nervous bird.

There are leaf cutter ants crossing the jungle path on their own incredibly-designed highways. These clean, packed trails are three inches wide with banked curves, ditched for rain, and always zigzag uphills to reduce erosion. The paths are maintained by ‘road crew’ ants, leaning on tiny little shovels. Chemist ants determine which leaves to cut as the ants don’t actually eat leaves but place them undergrougd in layers and grow fungus from them. The right types of leaves are necessary to produce this fungus on which the ants feed. The cutter himself, called the media, is about 1/2 inch long and carries a chunk of leaf the size of a silver dollar. On top of this leaf may ride a Minima ant, (about a twelfth of an inch long), he keeps flies away. The whole procession is protected by soldier ants that measure an inch. It is a true spectacle, rather like watching the Egyptians building the pyramids ... on your knees.

Brilliant red macaws flew in tight formation overhead as Toucans shrieked from treetop perches. The Toucan surely had his nose where it didn’t’ belong during creation, as the darn thing is as long as he is. Kinda like trying to fly with the bumper of a ‘59 Desoto on your face.

The trail emerged from the filtered jungle light and we stepped onto a glaring beach. Ahead, as far as sweat-stung eyes could see, black granite cliffs lined the narrow stretch of beach.

Advancing on those cliffs, a roaring Pacific surf pounded 30 feet away. We had six kilometers of cliffs to pass before the incoming tide closed in, and us out.

The heat reflecting off those walls was intense, like being a hamster in a microwave, the soft sand sucked at our burning legs.

“I know some people that might not think this was fun!” I gasped.

“I’m sure my girlfriend is sorry she’s at the Kentucky Derby and not here!” my brother croaked back. We slogged on.

The waves were just starting to reach those rocks, tearing at our tomato-colored legs, as we passed the last cliff and collapsed.

The trail apparently led back into the jungle at this point as the beach had certainly disappeared. We were lying on our backs on a spit of sand when a vulture swooped about five feet over us.

“I suppose we il better move,” said Tom.

Back into the jungle and straight up a vegetation covered-wall we scrambled. This was exactly what not to do, crawling on all fours grasping at reptilian vines and roots, cursing and suping our way up this rotted slimy wall. It was slilk, slicker than green teeth. A troop of agile Colorado monkeys watching from above were having a good laugh at our clumsy progress. What in the world had gone wrong with their evolutionary development, the monkeys wondered about us.

We heaved over the top and collapsed on a lichen-covered log. We were sweating like the Caesar’s Palace fountain, panting like pit bulls when suddenly something felt very wrong

“FIRE ANTS!” we screamed in chorus and launched into the air like sea world dolphins. We both dropped our shorts to hammer the vicious buggers and discovered another blight. “TICKS!!” we screamed

We trudged on, the sun getting uncomfortably low in the sky, and not a clue of our whereabouts, and that is somewhat disconcerting in this day and age ...to be lost.

Back on the beach now, staggering into the sunset, when we rounded a bend and stopped in horror.

The beach ended in a green swamp, swirling in currents and feeding crocodiles ... the Rio Claro. But that wasn’t the worst part, no, at our feet were fresh jaguar tracks the size of pan pizzas ... but that wasn’t the worst part, no, the worsi part was, it was getting dark ... fast and we had no weapons, no food, no tents, no fresh water ... we did however have rum, which we opened at this time.

“We’ll have to cross that river,” I heard myself say.

“The Budweiser Clydesdales couldn’t drag me across that river,” said my brother. “We’ll have to camp here.”

“What? The place is crawling in man-eating cats and crocodiles, and all we’ve got are these stupid umbrellas!” I took a long pull of cheap burning rum.

“We’ll build a fire,” said Tom.

“Let’s build a raft!” said the rum. A silence set in as I conjured a picture of that Camel cigarette guy, you know the one, rope over his shoulder, camel hanging out of his mouth, poling down the Amazon in complete control of the situation.

“YES, A RAFT!” by God, this was adventure. I leapt to my feet and tore around the beach gathering suitable driftwood.

“YES, A FIRE!” yelled Tom and went scurrying about the beach gathering suitable firewood.

“HEY I SAW THAT ONE FIRST!”

“DID NOT!”

“DID TOO!”

You know how brothers can get...

I used vines, tied together a dozen logs and climbed aboard. Torn pushed me into the swirling water just as the sun sank into the sea. “CAMEL MAN, HA !!“ I screamed as the water boiled about the flimsy craft. Almost immediately two major flaws arose with the raft idea.

One: Due to the instability of said craft, I was forced to sit. I wasn t sitting very high out of the water either mind you, but I was the high point for every spider, scorpion, insect, beetle and ant that had been residing in those logs to now scramble.

I was getting the be-Jesus bit and stung out of me.

Number two: design flaw ... as the logs rolled and settled in the water, the vines loosened, and the raft started to break apart.

The decision to abandon ship was not a hard one to make. I leapt for shore bouncing once on the waters surface, then bounding up the bank to the security of my brother’s fire ... and the rum.

“Sshhhudupp!” From the bug bites my lips had swollen to hot dogs in fact my entire face and body was distorting into

“The Elephant Man!!” howled my brother, “Not the Camel Man!” As darkness blanketed us, so did the no-see-ums. This was great, ensconced in hotels across Costa Rica was $2,000 worth of bug suits, tents, bug spray, first aid, food, clouths, mace, knives ... and here we were, actually in the jungle, with nothing more than two floral print umbrellas.

The tropical night was like a Mexican painting, black velvet. Our gallant fire tried to push it back but we were being smothered in blackness. The only thing that did light up outside of that fire light, were eyes. Red eyes of crocs, camien, cats and God knows what green eyes of the herbivores. I was starting to feel like somebody’s dinner. The noises were equally unnerving.

Great splashes and gurgling, heavy sighs. Spine-straightening screams and howls. Amphibian mating calls ... Take me, take me now!

Giant fruit bats dove at the firelight as lightning lit up the horizons. After one particular hair-raising shriek my brother mumbled, “and you had to take all the big firewood and send it out to sea!”

“Ssshhhuudup.”

If we did attempt to doze off, bright red crabs the size of soccer balls moved in, grabbed our boots and endeavored to drag us into the sea. I don’t believe I have ever passed a more riveting night. But, as you may have guessed, we lived through it, and morning was a beautiful site indeed.

The tide was out, the Rio Claro was about six feet lower, clear, and appeared to be only four to five

feet deep. One of us would spot for crocs while the other waded across.

“You go first!”

“Na, you first,”

I insist

“Na ... well ok, I’ll go first...”

“Hold it, maybe I’ll go first.”

After all, the first guy would only alert the crocs, the second guy would be dinner, it occurred to us at the same time.

Tom headed out, I followed. Although the river was only about 50 feet across, it was neck deep ... well nearly ... and swift. There were some truly religious moments in the center of the Rio Claro.

We screamed with shear delight of life upon gaining the far bank. After all, it’s so inconvenient to get ripped apart by crocs before breakfast.

It was a lovely morning for a stroll, the sand hardpacked on the falling tide, the sun fresh and still morning-cool. Within a few miles we came to a sign: Serina Biological Research Station, Corcovado National Park. This was the first station, home to about 20 rangers and scientists. This had been the previous days goal. We were about one third of the way across the park.

We turned up the path towards the station. Down the path headed straight for us, from out of the glistening green wall of forest walked a ... a beautiful girl. A vision ... a lovely Costa Rican bug catcher complete with butterfly net and high snake boots.

She walked up to the brothers frozen.

“Good morning, welcome to Serina,” is what she said.

“Did you boys have a nice walk?”

 

-The End.