Costa Rica Kayaking Trip

Scenery pics: http://tinyurl.com/62t8gq

Paddling pics: http://tinyurl.com/58zfgp

Life is comprised of bricks of experiences. When you approach the end, would you have a barbeque pit or a castle?

Tomorrow is promised to no one. If not now, when?

These are a couple of the philosophies that compelled me to plan a whitewater kayaking trip to Costa Rica. Or, rationalizations. Regardless, it was on my list.

Why there? Some of the primo scenery, wildlife and paddling in the world. And, less than a full day’s travel. Okay, enough of the prologue.

Day One. I flew to San Jose and was met by Jose (coincidentally), who works for the outfitter. Jose is a bright and personable young man who holds a wealth of knowledge about his country. He was also picking up Erica, a young lady from California who was with my group. From there, he was taking us to a B&B in Turrialba, which was to be our base of operations, about 30 miles away. The literature said it was about a two-hour ride. I thought that was padding it. I was wrong.

It took over an hour and a half just to get through San Jose. It was like Beechmont Avenue the week before Christmas. San Jose has a population of about a million, of which three quarters are on whatever street you’re on. They’ve tried to deal with the congestion by limiting driving by day of the week, according to the last digits of the license plate. Nice try.

The jam gave me time to read a newspaper I picked up at the airport. The lead story was about Hu Jintao’s visit to Central America. He worked an agreement with Costa Rica to build a soccer stadium, install a Chinese institute at the university and invest millions to double the output of the petroleum refineries of Costa Rica, for China’s benefit. Costa Rica is promoted as the mecca of the green movement, but eco-principles are soluble in cash. In short, China was making Costa Rica its bitch, along with the rest of Central America. In case this escaped anyone, the subhead of the article was “Hu’s your daddy?” I don’t condone editorializing in reporting, but that’s just too funny.

When we finally broke free, we wound about on two-lane mountain roads that are packed with everything from bicycles to semis, all weaving around each other. Passing is done without regard to what may be around the bend. And, without guardrails. If I had wearied during the plane trip, I was wide awake, now.

Forget about taking alternative routes. There is only one way from point A to point B. And, no bypass around towns. Attribute this to topography and economy. I was in no hurry and enjoyed the sights.

The scenery is pretty. But, the mountainsides have been scalped in favor of palm, coffee, sugar and other cash crops.

The flimsy houses are mostly small, with two or three rooms. You see almost no chimneys or air conditioning units. There’s no HVAC, and really no need. They are surprisingly packed together, given the vast amount of land. But, that real estate is often owned by corporate farmers.

As you approach Turrialba, and other tourism regions, you will find islands of gated opulent resorts or condos. They also get the land. We would later pass a lot on a river that had a sale sign. I suggested to one of the guides that it would be a nice place for him to have a house. He replied that he would never be permitted to purchase it. It’s not for Ticos (natives). They want wealthy Americans to buy such land and develop tourist attractions. The land is basically ceded to corporate farming, with related production, or tourism.

Turrialba supports a population of 65,000. I had a good view of it as we crested a mountaintop. The B&B was more like a compound made from small houses, so elements of it were open. I settled in my room and then went across the street to be fitted for boat and gear, which are kept in a warehouse that is fenced and razor-wired. Everything is razor-wired. When the average annual income is $4,200, the common career path isn’t neurosurgery. Yes, the country is touted as having very friendly people. Just don’t be walking around with black socks in your sandals or otherwise mark yourself as a tourist.

Then, it was back to the B&B to meet my fellow paddlers. Six of them were from a hardcore whitewater group out of Virginia. That left me and Erica, who is a veteran of western big water. I am not a veteran of big water, nor hardcore whitewater.

The compound had a central courtyard that sported hammocks, a hot tub, pool table and other amenities. Very nice. The room was okay. Signage in the bathroom advises that Costa Rican plumbing is not robust, so bathroom tissue does not go into the toilet. It goes into the trash basket. Interesting. Better have daily maid service. This would be the rule, rather than the exception. Like most places, the B&B did not have HVAC. Nor a water heater. The shower head was wired for heat, in the event you are not a fan of cold showers. I’ve never been entirely comfortable with electrical appliances in my shower stalls.

Dinner was served buffet style. It included black beans and rice (gallo pinto). Every meal is or includes gallo pinto in Costa Rica. The national dish. Fortunately, I like it. Especially with their salsas, which are wonderful. Fried plantains and fresh fruit are in abundance. We ate well.

We were introduced to Pablo, who would be our head guide for the week. I’d guess him to be about 30 and a little more serious than Colin Powell. He advised us that they had been having heavy rains for weeks and we might have to deviate from our plan, which was to paddle the upper and lower sections of three rivers in six days.

We played pool, drank beer and got acquainted. Some very interesting people. David is about my age and has a small plumbing company. He wears his hair in a ponytail and talks a bit like Larry the Cable Guy. This belies a very sharp and educated mind. He and I would hang quite a bit.

Day Two. After breakfast, we headed out in the driving rain for Rio Pejibaye, an hour or so away. I noticed the Virginia crowd brought a lot of their own gear and even some boats. Very serious class V paddlers.

The water was muddy, furious and faster than anything I had seen. I wondered if we’d paddle because it was up in the trees.

Pablo conferred with his assistants, Luis and Davis, along with Cliff, who was there to take video. They all merit comment.

Luis is a character and he and I would also become buds. Leading many trips, I tend to empathize with the people who manage them. Someone asked him what kind of fish were in the river. He said there were piranha, but they’re friendly ones. They don’t eat the PFDs and paddles, saving the outfitter a lot of money. Later, I mentioned to Luis that I had underpacked because I expected to be able to rinse stuff out and let it dry. It was just too humid. He said their climate was very healthy. “All the germs do well.”

Davis was the youngest and always had a ready smile. He, Luis and I would hit a few bars together over the course of the week. They all paddled these rivers as if they had been born on them. Which, they had been. Sometimes, I’d be getting maytagged playing a ferocious hole, and then look around and see some local kids with inner tubes just messing around in it.

Cliff was a young adventurer who had moved to Costa Rica a couple weeks before. He had lived on the north shore of Lake Superior and shot videos of kayaking the steep creeks that drop into the lake. However, he had kayaked most of the world. He was walking around with a Spanish-English dictionary, doing a good job of picking up the idioms.

They were taking no chances. The drill was that they told you the lines for the rapid, you followed them through it and eddied out at the end for instructions regarding the next drop. Sounds like a good plan, but there was a fly in the ointment. Actually, several flies.

The water was moving way too fast to easily hit an eddy at the end, especially with a violently boiling eddyline. The eddys were small and more like maelstroms of whirlpools at this level. I frequently careened off the line and was swept downstream past Pablo and dumped into the next chute. That’s how I learned Spanish for a**hole.

Pablo yelled about my technique, contradicting what I have been taught. Every leader seems to have his own theories. Hard to debate the points when the river is kicking your butt. Luis ribbed me a lot. I asked him if he was aware that his compensation was based on the gratuity system.

This river was essentially a giant rock garden with a potent keeper behind every pourover. If you weren’t paddling for all you were worth while you dodged back and forth, you were munched. If you were spit out, you were immediate sucked into the next hole. Swim and the rocks beat the crap out of you. The waves were big and powerful, so you really had to maintain an aggressive position. Get slapped back by the big waves and haystacks and you’re dead. Keep moving, no matter what. Also, the monsoons had downed many trees, creating a lot of strainers wedged between the rocks. Oh yes, this was a wise decision.

I might add that I was having more trouble than the others. They advised that I just treat it like a faster, higher volume Green River (NC). Fine, but the way I usually treat that is to avoid it.

I had a few rapids where I’d wipe out, roll, immediately get eaten by the next hole, roll, get munched, etc. It was not unusual for me to need four rolls in eight seconds. One hole grabbed my bow and I fought it for all I was worth. Above the roar, I thought I heard cheering. When I managed to get to the eddy, they high-fived me for pulling off a triple 360. They thought I was putting on a playboating clinic. Sure, that’s exactly what I was doing.

This first run was intended as a test, so the guides could assess our abilities. I felt like I had barely passed. Pablo said we all did well and that after lunch we would go to the upper river, which was difficult. Wait a minute. Back up the bus! You mean this wasn’t?

It continued to pour and the river was on the rise. Pablo said we’d skip lunch so we could get on before it was totally out of hand. Yeah, that’s one solution, I thought. Another could be to go back to the B&B and soak in the hot tub with some wine. Let’s look at all the alternatives.

But, we did the upper. Everything was a blur. Like trying to thread a Ferrari through a Wal-Mart with the gas pedal stuck to the floor. It was also running just above many of the boulders, so a flip resulted in a hard, fast head strike or getting your paddle whacked out of roll position. Are we having fun yet?

Bloodied but not bowed, we had a damp lunch and piled onto the minibus. We hung our gear to dry (or, at least drip a little), but didn’t head for the showers right away. Instead, we beelined for the bodega down the block for rum, wine and beer. Shower, dinner and into the hot tub.

Dinner had a different tone tonight. We had bonded in the crucible of the river. The warm brothership is one of the most positive aspects of paddling. It had been a trial today, but we were now having a blast.

Pablo informed us to pack for a few nights, as the rivers in the Turrialba region were too dangerous right now. Do ya think? We’d go up to the Caribbean slopes for a couple days, optimistic for less rain. Hated to leave our little funhouse, but safer water would be nice.

Day Three. We picked up our gear from the barn and loaded it into the minibus. It hadn’t dried. Nothing dries in Costa Rica. We drove a few hours and arrived at Rio Sarapiqui.

It was a beautiful light green. This is more like it. Pablo said the character was different from the previous river. This would be steep chutes that slam into a rock wall at the bottom where they pillow before a sharp turn. Don’t go too far and get smashed on the rock wall. I was keen not to learn Spanish for “Too far!”

My Mamba 8.0 wasn’t edgy, but I managed to carve enough to avoid the wall. However, there was a monster diagonal hydraulic on the downstream side of every pillow. You lost momentum skidding up the pillow and fell prey to the hole. Luis showed me a technique for taking on the walls. “Just do this. Is simple, no?” No. I had a better chance of sprouting wings and flying over it. I was becoming a gourmet for the tastes of the different rivers.

After the first couple, Pablo decided that we were ready to stop at the pillows and play them. There’s a good idea. After barely surviving one, I would turn around and stick my nose back in it. Why didn’t I think of that? After two days, I already had more combat rolls than I had done my entire life. I’ve also never had a helmet or paddle break before and was on my second of each.

So far, it had been a matter of just getting pummeled. But, I got kicked sideways on a big pourover and found myself crushed against a boulder under water with the powerful current pinning me against it with my boat. I was sandwiched and couldn’t even move my paddle. That’s one of those rare “This is it” moments of terror. With everything I could muster, I thrust with my legs and back, gaining a little room to get my arms into it and managed to break free. I let go of my paddle in the process, so it was a swim and some punishing pinballing off the boulders. Beats the heck out of drowning. A little bloody and bruised, but more pissed off than anything. Time to kick some rio butt. Taking the aggression up a notch made for a better run.

From the river, we went to the Ara Ambigua, a hillside inn with a tropical setting. Excellent place and a good tradeoff for our B&B. We cleaned up and relaxed on the patios of our adjoining rooms. Then, it was dinner and rum. My back was tightening up from my misadventure and I missed the hot tub. The rum helped. We had a nice party. I got back to the room and thought I had drank too much because a table looked like it was moving. Just a Costa Rican spider. I didn’t think the front door was wide enough, so I opened the patio slider and let it out.

Day Four. I woke up early to the screams of howler monkeys and could hardly budge. My back was locked into the shape of a question mark. At breakfast, I told Pablo I might not be able to paddle.

It had rained all night. We went to the river and it had come up considerably and was muddy. There were a few rafting companies at the put-in and most were scrubbing the mission. Pablo thought the river would drop off. We waited and it looked like it was rising to me. But, my back had already made my decision.

Pablo decided we’d put in further downstream, a few miles above where it usually flattened out. The bus driver dropped the paddlers and we went into a small town to hang for a while. Very interesting. He told me his life story. At least, that’s what I think it was. I don’t speak Spanish and he had no English. It was like conversations my ex and I used to have.

The rain stopped and we went to the takeout. There were three boys on what I thought was a dilapidated houseboat tied up in the cove. It turned out to be a barge with a shack. They freight vegetables and fruit from Nicaragua. I don’t think any of them was older than twelve. This was as high as they could get on the river. They were waiting for the water to drop before attempting to go home.

It was still raining, but I enjoyed standing out there and talking with the boys. Also, looking at the toucans and macaws.

The kayaks arrived fairly quickly and the group was uncharacteristically quiet and grim. They had had a few bad situations. If they had a hard time, I would’ve been fish food. It may be one of the few times a bad back was a blessing.

Pablo judged it was too dangerous here. We set out for Turrialba, hoping the weather had tailed off there. This was one great group. Almost everyone rolled with the punches.

It was good to be “home” with the hammocks and hot tub. Life was good. Not so fast.

At dinner, Pablo told us that everything here was flooded and to pack all our stuff tonight. We would spend the rest of the week down by the Pacific. Breakfast would be early because it was a five-hour drive. The route would take us back through San Jose, so I guessed six or seven hours and was close. It didn’t matter. We always had a lot of fun on the bus and the scenery was spectacular.

Day Five. After breakfast, we loaded up and headed out. One of the treats of the road trips was the rest stops. Usually a roadside bungalow where they made all kinds of goodies over wood fires. And, that fantastic local coffee. The bathrooms were mostly plywood booths around back. Men peed into a trough that drained ten feet away onto the ground. Easier to skip the middleman.

The mountains approaching the Pacific were especially pretty and afforded high views of the ocean. As you wound down toward the shore, more and more resorts poked up through the jungle.

We cut over some back roads to Rio Naranjo. They were basically compacted mud with cavernous potholes. The driver picked his lines like we were running a river. However, the road was about four lanes wide to accommodate the trucks for the teak, palm oil and other products harvested and processed back in there. Four lanes of all manner of vehicle zigzagging side to side to avoid the larger potholes in some strange dance.

Those roads gave way to one-laners, winding around steep hills. The boat trailer blew a tire and we had to load the boats on top of the bus. Pablo stayed to fix the trailer, which put Luis in charge.

By now, we had time for just a two-hour run. The water was high and pushy, but not all that dangerous. Some immense waves and holes to keep you alert. Not that you needed that. We had seen numerous large crocodiles lounging along the banks on the ride in. Alert was not a problem.

Luis was quick with his wit, but a little shorter on patience for people who didn’t follow direction on these swift waters, or for the issues person we had on the trip. Every trip has one. Like most of this ilk, she didn’t take up her issues with the guides. Her delight was attempting to rabble rouse. Didn’t sit well with the group, but even less so with Luis. He was ready to feed her to a croc and we were ready to sprinkle tenderizer on her. Even better, this would be a source of some good material I could use to needle Luis with later.

From there, we went to the oceanside town of Quepos. Not having a beach, it wasn’t the posh resort town that Jaco is, or the Ohiopyle-on-the-Pacific that is Manuel Antonio. We checked into the Le Priss, which kind of resembles a grand mansion. Off to a sumptuous dinner at an open air tavern and then doing the night life. Good times. I met Hernando, who ran kayak tours back into the mangroves and jungle. Interesting guy.

Day Six. Breakfast and then piling on the bus for a trip to Rio Savegre. The bus had had almost a week of wet river gear and people who had been pounding down rum, beans and salsa. Not exactly lavender-scented. I can only assume it’s been turned over to a hazmat crew.

The back road to the Savegre was about as back as you can get. Winding through the jungle, we had to ford some streams. But, we saw a lot of bird life, iguanas and crocs. This was adventure.

The river was absolutely beautiful. I was so glad the weather had forced relocation to the Pacific. It was like whitewater in deepest Africa, with some magnificent waterfalls. The paddling was spirited and fun. The plan was to finish up by about three and go to the beach at Manual Antonio. However, severe storms came up, so we went back to the hotel.

After cleaning up, we went out to dinner and then hit the dance bars. I ran into Hernando again, who suggested I join his jungle paddle the next morning. Our plan was to do a repeat on the Naranjo, except covering more distance than the foreshortened trip. This seemed like an opportunity to add variety to my trip, so I agreed to go with Hernando. Fine, he’ll pick me up at 6:00 AM. Come again? The times are dictated by the tides.

Day Seven. I should’ve crashed early last night, but how many times do you get to party hardy in a tropical paradise? Hernando showed up with a van and two couples from Nebraska, who were also doing the tour. Very nice people. I had almost a week of damp river in my clothes and prayed they wouldn't pass out in the van.

We took the roads back into the jungle, where Hernando had a small compound and some sit-on-top kayaks. And, monkeys all over the place. Playful and amusing little devils. The channels that cut through the dense mangroves are about ten feet wide. The mangrove roots are home for ample numbers of colorful tree crabs and snails. Also, an extensive variety of bird life. We watched one stalk a six-foot boa draped on a tree limb. The snake was a lot bigger than the bird, so it didn’t seem like a terrific idea. I assumed he knew his business.

We plied the mangroves to where they meet the Pacific. Way cool.

Hernando drove me back to town, where I arrived well before my group. Had time to do some enjoyable sightseeing and shopping. My group arrived and we did lunch before heading for Manuel Antonio to get in some beach time. It’s a small community with a carnival-like atmosphere. The road along the beach is lined with street vendors and palm trees, filled with macaws and monkeys.

What Ohiopyle is to kayakers, this place is to surfers. We loaded up on surf bling before pointing the bus to San Jose. Wade is a huge good ol’ boy, at home in jeans and a tee. And, I’m not exactly a cover model for the Dakine catalog. The women had some fun accessorizing us with the rad stuff. Rum helped the process. I was going to taper off for re-entry to the civilized world, but there was a beach bar owned by a guy named Wild Bill. I took that as a sign.

We stayed at a nice inn on the west side of San Jose, not far from the airport. After dinner, we filled our glasses and gathered in a room to view Cliff’s video of the week. He had been editing along the way. Lots of laughs (mostly at my expense). It looked like a highlight reel of spectacular flips. He was selling them for a hundred dollars a pop, which seemed like a lot just to see the bottom of my boat. After that, we disposed of the remainder of our liquor cache late into the wee hours.

Cliff mentioned that the hotel had a computer lounge and a bunch of eyebrows went up. We sprinted down there to shoot some email home. Four computers and not one had 100% key function. The dead keys were the frequently used letters, so it looked like most wouldn’t be able to log on. I hit upon the idea of cutting and pasting the dead letters from the welcome opening pages. Rum is good stuff for creativity.

Day Eight. Our last meal together, which was kind of sad. Sorry to come to an end of the experience. Pablo came around the tables to take our choices, as usual. For three meals a day all week, we had heard him ask the same question, “fish, chicken or beef,” as in, what do you want with your rice and beans. He asked in his usual deadpan and then broke into a rare smile. “Or, at this fancy place, you can have bacon and eggs with pancakes.” Yes!

The bus took us to the airport and we wandered the shops. They know you don’t care about price. You’ve got a hundred thousand or so colons on you that’s going to turn into Monopoly money the second you touch down in Atlanta. Better to burn it off on trinkets than take the hit at the airport exchange. My assistant will enjoy her chili-flavored macadamia nuts Christmas present.

I was a little sorry to watch the mountains disappear under the wing, but there’s no pad like home.