Travel

Winnipeg Free Press - PRINT EDITION

Escape from Fast Food Hell

We left consumerism in the dust to explore the real Costa Rica

By: Brett Logan

Posted: 06/27/2009 1:00 AM | Comments: 0 (including replies)

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A waterfall series near Montezuma. (PHOTOS BY PAT RICE)

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Softcore frog porn at Bosque del cabo Rainforest Lodge.

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An iguana-staring contest en route to Montezuma.

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Pacific oast of Bosque del Cabo

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A blue morpho at Bosque del Cabo Rainforest Lodge is too blue to be true.

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Off the grid in the jungles of Osa Peninsula.

When you’re a 22-year-old male crossing Customs from Canada to the USA, or vice versa, you’ll undoubtedly be asked to show your passport, maybe sign some documents, perhaps be subjected to a vehicle or even cavity search.

Or maybe fingerprints, retinal scan, revision of your grade-three timetable ... even though we've developed "(O)ne of the most successful international relationships in the modern world" (Wikipedia).

When you cross the border from Nicaragua to Costa Rica, you can pay a seven-year-old the equivalent of 50 cents to go get your passport stamped. The boy makes a small commission and you never come in contact with an agent of any sort.

It's just the way it is.

So we're in CR with absolutely no idea of how to get to our desired destination. We'd cabbed to the border deciding just to wing it -- a decision that sometimes works, but other times leaves you amply sampling the national beer in a border cafe, after being told that the last bus to Tamarindo left four hours ago.

But, imagine yourself in this border cafe, amidst coconut-cracker wrappers and hombres con bigotes, suddenly overhearing the words "Guaranteed the Rays will dominate the Sox in the ALCS," coming from behind.

A phrase that at that moment caused my head to rapidly turn as if I were a recovering alcoholic and had just heard the kkuush sound of an opening beer can. Americans. Seemingly heading towards a vehicle, and not just any vehicle, towards a pickup truck.

"I'm on it." Noble spouted, already making his way towards the door.

The white Kia flatbed sped through the beautiful Costa Rican landscape, banking corners effortlessly like a child to waterslide, dense rain forest surrounding us on all sides as drops of water glistened away in the afternoon sun.

The Americans were nice, taking us right to where we needed to go, but only after an "essential" stop at Burger King, a monstrosity and an eyesore in this lush tropical setting.

Ultimately, Tamarindo was no different. A town situated on a picturesque coastline, it has the type of beaches you could walk on for hours on end as the surf rhythmically sways to the gentle tune of time and granules of sand squeeze between your toes.

But then you reach the dirt pathway leading to the town's main drag and there's a McDonalds staring you right in the face, the smell of grease filling your nasal cavities and making you realize that, in this case, you missed the boat. That you arrived 10 years too late. That the corporate world beat you there.

It called for immediate and drastic action.

There was a Hertz rental car agency (beside a KFC), and it took mere minutes to flash a credit card and be off, running from western consumerism and back on the road where we belonged.

Rapidly punching the clutch from second to third we accelerated around sharp bends, doing our best to avoid sunbathing fate-testing iguanas. We followed a series of dirt roads down Costa Rica's Pacific peninsula through an undeveloped network of vegetation where you get directions like "Turn right at the overflowing river" and "If you pass a tree full of monkeys, you've gone too far."

God, it felt good to drive again! Total freedom, like the Pollo Loco days, even when you're forced into makeshift repairs hours before the vehicle is due back, the pitted roads surrounding Montezuma deeming such things necessary.

Out of Fast Food's ugly shadow, Costa Rica showed us her true beauty, an exquisite display of diverse wildlife and never-ending greenery that has made it a top travel destination. Following a bulging river through the muggy jungle, we stumbling across a rope-swing, a 40-foot cliff, and a small collection of other travelers vibing between back-to-back waterfalls.

We jumped with only minimal amounts of whining and met an ex-NFL player named Slayer (whose wardrobe consisted solely of skin-tight, white Under Armour shorts and a black bandana), as the many creatures of the rain forest chattered in a subdued manner, preparing for their real vocal performance at night.

The brilliance of this location was essential in setting a new tone for Costa Rica: get off the beaten path, and get into it.

It was that tone which, days later, convinced us to skip through the urban madness of San Jose and trek numerous blocks from bus station to bus station as our shirts became drenched with sweat. It was that tone which encouraged the acquisition of a new six-string, deemed necessary as we headed towards the warm waters of the Caribbean once more.

It was that tone that advised us to hitchhike down CR's eastern coast towards Puerto Viejo, an adventure culminating when ex-pats Paul, Jan and their blue-eyed, blond-haired son Zane pulled over and happily made room for our gear. And it was that tone which, over the course of the next week, demanded morning bike rides into pick-your-own-bean coffee country, afternoon blunders through the jungle doing our best David Suzuki imitations, and evening beach sessions set to an acoustic soundtrack.

After some days in that ebbing Caribbean lifestyle -- the one that makes you forget Wall Street even exists -- it was time. Time to make a move. Ever onwards. Sleep on a wooden dock as ceaseless rain pounds the tin roof above you, watching Caiman alligators dart through the murky canal waters.

Panama awaits.

Brett Logan chronicles his South American adventures in a regular series in the Free Press Travel section.

Republished from the Winnipeg Free Press print edition June 27, 2009 E1

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