Ask someone to sum up Central America in three killer statements and the chances are you'll get something along the lines of "political turmoil", "Panama Canal" and "Tropical rainforest" in return.
The next leg of our journey would see us enter the country most associated with the latter, whilst leaving the one perhaps most synonymous with the former.
With no real plan other than to pass through Costa Rica en route to Panama and South America, we toyed with a couple of options before deciding to head for a national park called Monteverde. Here we could look forward to seeing the spectacular flora and fauna that the country is famous for and there were some adrenaline junkie pursuits to indulge in too should we feel so inclined.
Our digs in Rivas in Nicaragua were close to the Tica Bus offices and we therefore discovered a rather convenient 0900 departure to San Jose for Monday morning. Queuing to buy tickets, I spoke to the young lady behind us learning that she was from Bristol (partly given away by her "I Love Bristol" bag) and also that she was just coming to the end of her and her fellas' nine week tour of Panama and Nicaragua. It's lovely to share your stories with other travellers, even if the only other things I'm likely to have in common with an osteopath called Rupert is that we suck oxygen and we pee standing up.
When buying the tickets I was quite clear in asking if the bus was direct to Monteverde. The answer was unequivocally in the affirmative but just to be sure I checked by stating/asking "so no change?".
Kerry and I were slightly surprised that the bus would be passing through the very place we wanted but reasoned that perhaps the chicken bus gods felt we needed a break after recent traumas and were about to lay us a golden egg.
We waited by the side of the road with Rupe and Amelia, a couple of Chinese backpackers and five surf nazis from New Zealand who were travelling down the Pacific coast of Central America with their boards.
And we get hacked off with our cases!
Half an hour late the bus pulled up and the first thing the driver said on seeing our tickets was "Change at Estrilla".
I queried this in light of my earlier conversation with the ticket wench but just received a lengthy and unintelligible response so slunk onto the bus not really knowing what the day would entail.
The border was only 20 minutes away so we were soon there and through that, once we'd proved we had a flight home and once the ignoramus who dealt with us had obliterated my Cuba passport stamp with a Costa Rica one.
The scenery became even more lush and verdant as we headed south, exactly what you'd expect, though there was still no indication as to where we should get off or what, if anything, we would connect with.
A chap got on and was selling empanadas (little pies) and when the bus stopped to let him off I went and asked the driver if this was where Kerry and I should alight. He waved me back to my seat as if to say "no way Jose" but we didn't pull away and 30 seconds later he'd caught my eye in his rear view mirror and was maniacally gesticulating for us to skidaddle after all.
I have no idea what all that was about on account of my pitiful grasp of the lingo but how I craved fluency at that moment so that I could question his incomprehensible actions fully.
So here we were again, standing by the side of the Pan-American highway, hoping to be able to reach a place roughly 40km away but not knowing if it were possible or what would follow.
Over the road was a bar/cafe and three men sitting under a tree so we crossed and as we did so the most toothless and leathery of them asked if we were heading to Monteverde, if so the bus would be here in 35 minutes.
Elation!
Making use of the facilities in our vicinity by way of killing that time, we ordered a couple of empanadas, a coffee and an iced tea from the cafe and sat discussing how exciting all this was and how there was nothing on this earth we'd rather be doing right now.
(I withheld anything pertaining to cycling, the world cup or Kylie Minogue and a vat of caramel, I didn't want to spoil the mood)
A taxi pulled up and I asked him out of curiosity how much he'd charge to take us directly to Monteverde. Perhaps, if it wasn't prohibitively expensive, it might be worth doing?
If there is a world record for distance coffee is exhaled then I may have troubled it when he said it would be $75.
Happy with the bus option we sat and nibbled our pies and sipped our boiling coffees. Our ice teas were largely untouched.
Then, in a cloud of dust appeared a ratty old bus with "Monteverde" emblazoned in the windscreen and pulled up 20 yards away.
In 30 seconds flat I had asked for our bill, paid, we had picked up our backpacks and our main cases, shoved them in the hold and were boarding that bus.
The accompanying language to our miraculous embarkation was choice, mainly colloquial and screeched at a pace that would make the commentary of the final furlong of the Grand National seem sedentary.
But we were on and with only 40km to our goal we reckoned on being there within the hour, affording us ample time to source suitable lodgings and to relax a little before dinner.
Then the road ran out.
Well, it didn't so much run out as become an unpaved mountain pass. For the Northamptonshireans among you think Stonebrick Lane near Little Harrowden only with hairpin 20% climbs. Devonians, imagine an unpaved Peak Hill only 20 times as long.
It's amazing how these buses get up these roads but of course, it did, affording us spectacular views as we progressed.
About halfway up the driver pulled over and invited a young chap in the front seat to take over at the wheel.
We initially thought this was some harebrained mates thing:
"Here, I'd love to have a go driving your bus one day Pablo me old china."
"No problemo Juan. Let's do it tomorrow, halfway to Monteverde, away from the prying eyes of the inspectors etc"
But it turned out to be a training session for the young chap before he's let loose on his tod.
How long do you think our 40km journey took then? Even on unpaved roads, uphill, you might think that two hours would be doable. Sadly not. 3 hours 10 minutes we were on that bus, achieving an average speed of about 9mph. And talk about the journey to the back end of beyond. During those hours we passed through places that made Dartmoor look like a metropolis.
On arrival in the town of Santa Elena, main settlement of the Monteverde area, we were amazed. For starters there were houses and people about, something we'd seen precious little of for three hours, the roads were paved, tour agencies were everywhere, shops, hotels, restaurants, a big LCD screen advertising bungee jumps.
How bizarre after the terrain we'd passed through to get here.
We had no room booked but our bus was met by a gaggle of hoteliers all keen to secure our business. Winner of ours was a nice lady talking in amusing pidgin English who omitted to mention that her place was up a steep unpaved road.
Nevertheless it was a pearler. Ostensibly a hostel, it was well-appointed, included brekkie, had a view of the Pacific from our room (yes, we were that high) and had a hot shower -all for $25 per night.
That our louvre windows wouldn't close and a New Zealander and a German talked long into the night outside our room was a mild inconvenience we choose to ignore.
The whole point of coming here was to do the Costa Rican touristy thing so first on the agenda next day was a 3km hike over bridges through the jungle canopy.
If that description doesn't do it for you then think "I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here" when the celebrity walks to freedom or elimination or whatever they call it. Those bridges, that's what we were walking on about 100 feet up.
The great thing about being 4000 feet + above sea level is that the temperature drops significantly. It was only about 23/24 degrees here so my shirt was notably unwringoutable and I'd go so far as to say I felt comfortable for the first time in a long time.
That changed when we went in the butterfly enclosure but it was an interesting inversion of the usual situation where it's boiling outside and you go in to an air-con room; it was 10 degrees hotter for the 45 minutes we spent ogling the massive and colourful insects fluttering about us and a great relief to get outside again.
The next leg of our journey would see us enter the country most associated with the latter, whilst leaving the one perhaps most synonymous with the former.
With no real plan other than to pass through Costa Rica en route to Panama and South America, we toyed with a couple of options before deciding to head for a national park called Monteverde. Here we could look forward to seeing the spectacular flora and fauna that the country is famous for and there were some adrenaline junkie pursuits to indulge in too should we feel so inclined.
Our digs in Rivas in Nicaragua were close to the Tica Bus offices and we therefore discovered a rather convenient 0900 departure to San Jose for Monday morning. Queuing to buy tickets, I spoke to the young lady behind us learning that she was from Bristol (partly given away by her "I Love Bristol" bag) and also that she was just coming to the end of her and her fellas' nine week tour of Panama and Nicaragua. It's lovely to share your stories with other travellers, even if the only other things I'm likely to have in common with an osteopath called Rupert is that we suck oxygen and we pee standing up.
When buying the tickets I was quite clear in asking if the bus was direct to Monteverde. The answer was unequivocally in the affirmative but just to be sure I checked by stating/asking "so no change?".
Kerry and I were slightly surprised that the bus would be passing through the very place we wanted but reasoned that perhaps the chicken bus gods felt we needed a break after recent traumas and were about to lay us a golden egg.
We waited by the side of the road with Rupe and Amelia, a couple of Chinese backpackers and five surf nazis from New Zealand who were travelling down the Pacific coast of Central America with their boards.
And we get hacked off with our cases!
Half an hour late the bus pulled up and the first thing the driver said on seeing our tickets was "Change at Estrilla".
I queried this in light of my earlier conversation with the ticket wench but just received a lengthy and unintelligible response so slunk onto the bus not really knowing what the day would entail.
The border was only 20 minutes away so we were soon there and through that, once we'd proved we had a flight home and once the ignoramus who dealt with us had obliterated my Cuba passport stamp with a Costa Rica one.
The scenery became even more lush and verdant as we headed south, exactly what you'd expect, though there was still no indication as to where we should get off or what, if anything, we would connect with.
A chap got on and was selling empanadas (little pies) and when the bus stopped to let him off I went and asked the driver if this was where Kerry and I should alight. He waved me back to my seat as if to say "no way Jose" but we didn't pull away and 30 seconds later he'd caught my eye in his rear view mirror and was maniacally gesticulating for us to skidaddle after all.
I have no idea what all that was about on account of my pitiful grasp of the lingo but how I craved fluency at that moment so that I could question his incomprehensible actions fully.
So here we were again, standing by the side of the Pan-American highway, hoping to be able to reach a place roughly 40km away but not knowing if it were possible or what would follow.
Over the road was a bar/cafe and three men sitting under a tree so we crossed and as we did so the most toothless and leathery of them asked if we were heading to Monteverde, if so the bus would be here in 35 minutes.
Elation!
Making use of the facilities in our vicinity by way of killing that time, we ordered a couple of empanadas, a coffee and an iced tea from the cafe and sat discussing how exciting all this was and how there was nothing on this earth we'd rather be doing right now.
(I withheld anything pertaining to cycling, the world cup or Kylie Minogue and a vat of caramel, I didn't want to spoil the mood)
A taxi pulled up and I asked him out of curiosity how much he'd charge to take us directly to Monteverde. Perhaps, if it wasn't prohibitively expensive, it might be worth doing?
If there is a world record for distance coffee is exhaled then I may have troubled it when he said it would be $75.
Happy with the bus option we sat and nibbled our pies and sipped our boiling coffees. Our ice teas were largely untouched.
Then, in a cloud of dust appeared a ratty old bus with "Monteverde" emblazoned in the windscreen and pulled up 20 yards away.
In 30 seconds flat I had asked for our bill, paid, we had picked up our backpacks and our main cases, shoved them in the hold and were boarding that bus.
The accompanying language to our miraculous embarkation was choice, mainly colloquial and screeched at a pace that would make the commentary of the final furlong of the Grand National seem sedentary.
But we were on and with only 40km to our goal we reckoned on being there within the hour, affording us ample time to source suitable lodgings and to relax a little before dinner.
Then the road ran out.
Well, it didn't so much run out as become an unpaved mountain pass. For the Northamptonshireans among you think Stonebrick Lane near Little Harrowden only with hairpin 20% climbs. Devonians, imagine an unpaved Peak Hill only 20 times as long.
It's amazing how these buses get up these roads but of course, it did, affording us spectacular views as we progressed.
About halfway up the driver pulled over and invited a young chap in the front seat to take over at the wheel.
We initially thought this was some harebrained mates thing:
"Here, I'd love to have a go driving your bus one day Pablo me old china."
"No problemo Juan. Let's do it tomorrow, halfway to Monteverde, away from the prying eyes of the inspectors etc"
But it turned out to be a training session for the young chap before he's let loose on his tod.
How long do you think our 40km journey took then? Even on unpaved roads, uphill, you might think that two hours would be doable. Sadly not. 3 hours 10 minutes we were on that bus, achieving an average speed of about 9mph. And talk about the journey to the back end of beyond. During those hours we passed through places that made Dartmoor look like a metropolis.
On arrival in the town of Santa Elena, main settlement of the Monteverde area, we were amazed. For starters there were houses and people about, something we'd seen precious little of for three hours, the roads were paved, tour agencies were everywhere, shops, hotels, restaurants, a big LCD screen advertising bungee jumps.
How bizarre after the terrain we'd passed through to get here.
We had no room booked but our bus was met by a gaggle of hoteliers all keen to secure our business. Winner of ours was a nice lady talking in amusing pidgin English who omitted to mention that her place was up a steep unpaved road.
Nevertheless it was a pearler. Ostensibly a hostel, it was well-appointed, included brekkie, had a view of the Pacific from our room (yes, we were that high) and had a hot shower -all for $25 per night.
That our louvre windows wouldn't close and a New Zealander and a German talked long into the night outside our room was a mild inconvenience we choose to ignore.
The whole point of coming here was to do the Costa Rican touristy thing so first on the agenda next day was a 3km hike over bridges through the jungle canopy.
If that description doesn't do it for you then think "I'm a Celebrity Get Me Out Of Here" when the celebrity walks to freedom or elimination or whatever they call it. Those bridges, that's what we were walking on about 100 feet up.
The great thing about being 4000 feet + above sea level is that the temperature drops significantly. It was only about 23/24 degrees here so my shirt was notably unwringoutable and I'd go so far as to say I felt comfortable for the first time in a long time.
That changed when we went in the butterfly enclosure but it was an interesting inversion of the usual situation where it's boiling outside and you go in to an air-con room; it was 10 degrees hotter for the 45 minutes we spent ogling the massive and colourful insects fluttering about us and a great relief to get outside again.
We had a few minutes to kill before our transport back to town so we went to the hummingbird garden where we were utterly mesmerised by what we saw. Hummingbirds are the tiniest little fellows you've ever clapped eyes on, about as big as your thumb, and they flit and skit about like chihuahuas on hallucinogens. Beautifully coloured in blues and greens and more magical to behold than possibly anything you've ever seen, we were entranced and only sorry we didn't have more time to ogle the little blighters.
We rested that afternoon before the sojourn highlight, the evening jungle walk. This was a guided walk through the pitch black jungle where we could hope to see all manner of things courtesy of our expert leader. It was a bit scary at first, apparently 95% of animals in the jungle are nocturnal and we could expect to see tarantulas, scorpions and poisonous vipers and frogs, but we soon overcame our fears and enjoyed charging about when reports came in for the various creatures.
We saw: a two-toed sloth, a poisonous yellow frog, two scorpions, two tarantulas, a coatimundi, two green vipers and some glow-in-the-dark fungus on a log as well as innumerate insects. We even all turned our torches off at one point and walked a few yards in the absolute pitch to get a feel for how dark it gets in there.
In our group was a young lady and it turned out that she was born in Exeter and her mum lives in Exmouth. Small world!
After that jam-packed day we headed for San Jose and a dose of city life by way of antedote to our eco-tourism adventure.
The early morning bus direct to San Jose on Wednesday was a joy: comfortable, roomy, cheap, a peaceful environment, with just one notable exception; the chap in front's propensity to drop his guts every ten minutes or so. From experience I'd say he had an intolerance to milk or dairy products, either that or something had crawled up his sheriff's badge and died without him realising.
Fortunately the bus windows opened so we could deal with each 'fresh' blast and this also afforded great photographic opportunities as we sped through the quite glorious countryside.
Not only was the scenery wonderful but rubbish was conspicuous by its absence. At last, after months of travelling through litter-strewn countries we have finally reached another where they care enough for the environment to clean up after themselves.
Hallelujah!
This, the houses, the cars and the cut of the populace's gib all told us we were very much no longer in Nica, Belize, Guate or Honduras. No, we were somewhere on the up, somewhere seemingly going places.
As we approached San Jose we saw we were entering the first "proper" city we'd seen since Mexico City. Yes, Guatemala City, Tegucigalpa and Belize City are cities but they all resemble old mother Hubbards pantry on a lean day. Here there were people purposefully striding about, they looked affluent and European, it looked a bit like home or the USA.
Much as we've loved seeing these other places I think we were both ready for a bit of something more resembling 21st century Blighty than 1960s Kiev.
In the taxi on the way to our hotel, which turned out to be closed for renovations (echoes of Granada) we learned of that mornings earthquake perhaps only 40 miles from where we were on our bus.
We sought a room but guessed we were in the wrong part of town when the first hotel we tried was offering rooms for the whole night or for periods of three hours and the second one, when asked if we could see the room, responded with a flat "no".
No? What, no I can't see the room? That's preposterous. Who is going to take a room without seeing it? How bad must it be?
We ended up in a hostel which had a few swanky private suites, our one being named "The Royal Suite".
It was a slight misnomer. I can't see "her maj" being prepared to step over a case when ever she needed to issue a royal wee on account of her quarters being so bijou, or make do without even one hook on which to hang anything.
It's the minor details that count oh hoteliers of Centro Americana.
People want a bedside table, storage, somewhere to rest your shower gel whilst you lather up your nether regions and a bit of light wouldn't go amiss either. Some of us have fading eyesight so a 10 watt bulb just doesn't cut the mustard.
It's redeeming feature was its bed. A full 6 ft wide bed and comfortable too. If it wasn't for our whinnying French neighbours sneezing, rabbiting and retching at all hours of the day and night we may just have had some decent sleep for the first time since Big Corn.
We did literally nothing all day on Wednesday after checking in. Just lazed about, ate, read and watched the rain pelt down on the city.
On Thursday, nearly 24 hours after arriving, we finally ventured out and despite being told by a few different people that a visit to San Jose was a waste of time, we really liked it.
Only founded in 1738 it doesn't have the bloody history in the name of the Catholic church of much of the rest of Central America, neither does it therefore have buildings of great antiquity.
What it does have is some lovely shady parks, a quite stunning cathedral, some very friendly inhabitants, good museums and a fantastic shopping area.
Ah shopping!
Poor Kerry has been so deprived of late and was almost overcome with the couple of hours we spent in the High St that afternoon.
Despite it being much more expensive here than the last few countries we've been to we're really enjoying it. It's easy to see why tourism is the number one industry and I love the fact that the government disbanded the military in 1948 citing it as a threat to democracy.
That the old military barracks in San Jose is now a butterfly enclosure is surely the greatest demonstration of pacifism possible.
Costa Rica is geographically in Central America but is as Central American as Scotland is English.
It's years ahead of its neighbours and for two weary, near geriatric travellers, that feels good.
We rested that afternoon before the sojourn highlight, the evening jungle walk. This was a guided walk through the pitch black jungle where we could hope to see all manner of things courtesy of our expert leader. It was a bit scary at first, apparently 95% of animals in the jungle are nocturnal and we could expect to see tarantulas, scorpions and poisonous vipers and frogs, but we soon overcame our fears and enjoyed charging about when reports came in for the various creatures.
We saw: a two-toed sloth, a poisonous yellow frog, two scorpions, two tarantulas, a coatimundi, two green vipers and some glow-in-the-dark fungus on a log as well as innumerate insects. We even all turned our torches off at one point and walked a few yards in the absolute pitch to get a feel for how dark it gets in there.
In our group was a young lady and it turned out that she was born in Exeter and her mum lives in Exmouth. Small world!
After that jam-packed day we headed for San Jose and a dose of city life by way of antedote to our eco-tourism adventure.
The early morning bus direct to San Jose on Wednesday was a joy: comfortable, roomy, cheap, a peaceful environment, with just one notable exception; the chap in front's propensity to drop his guts every ten minutes or so. From experience I'd say he had an intolerance to milk or dairy products, either that or something had crawled up his sheriff's badge and died without him realising.
Fortunately the bus windows opened so we could deal with each 'fresh' blast and this also afforded great photographic opportunities as we sped through the quite glorious countryside.
Not only was the scenery wonderful but rubbish was conspicuous by its absence. At last, after months of travelling through litter-strewn countries we have finally reached another where they care enough for the environment to clean up after themselves.
Hallelujah!
This, the houses, the cars and the cut of the populace's gib all told us we were very much no longer in Nica, Belize, Guate or Honduras. No, we were somewhere on the up, somewhere seemingly going places.
As we approached San Jose we saw we were entering the first "proper" city we'd seen since Mexico City. Yes, Guatemala City, Tegucigalpa and Belize City are cities but they all resemble old mother Hubbards pantry on a lean day. Here there were people purposefully striding about, they looked affluent and European, it looked a bit like home or the USA.
Much as we've loved seeing these other places I think we were both ready for a bit of something more resembling 21st century Blighty than 1960s Kiev.
In the taxi on the way to our hotel, which turned out to be closed for renovations (echoes of Granada) we learned of that mornings earthquake perhaps only 40 miles from where we were on our bus.
We sought a room but guessed we were in the wrong part of town when the first hotel we tried was offering rooms for the whole night or for periods of three hours and the second one, when asked if we could see the room, responded with a flat "no".
No? What, no I can't see the room? That's preposterous. Who is going to take a room without seeing it? How bad must it be?
We ended up in a hostel which had a few swanky private suites, our one being named "The Royal Suite".
It was a slight misnomer. I can't see "her maj" being prepared to step over a case when ever she needed to issue a royal wee on account of her quarters being so bijou, or make do without even one hook on which to hang anything.
It's the minor details that count oh hoteliers of Centro Americana.
People want a bedside table, storage, somewhere to rest your shower gel whilst you lather up your nether regions and a bit of light wouldn't go amiss either. Some of us have fading eyesight so a 10 watt bulb just doesn't cut the mustard.
It's redeeming feature was its bed. A full 6 ft wide bed and comfortable too. If it wasn't for our whinnying French neighbours sneezing, rabbiting and retching at all hours of the day and night we may just have had some decent sleep for the first time since Big Corn.
We did literally nothing all day on Wednesday after checking in. Just lazed about, ate, read and watched the rain pelt down on the city.
On Thursday, nearly 24 hours after arriving, we finally ventured out and despite being told by a few different people that a visit to San Jose was a waste of time, we really liked it.
Only founded in 1738 it doesn't have the bloody history in the name of the Catholic church of much of the rest of Central America, neither does it therefore have buildings of great antiquity.
What it does have is some lovely shady parks, a quite stunning cathedral, some very friendly inhabitants, good museums and a fantastic shopping area.
Ah shopping!
Poor Kerry has been so deprived of late and was almost overcome with the couple of hours we spent in the High St that afternoon.
Despite it being much more expensive here than the last few countries we've been to we're really enjoying it. It's easy to see why tourism is the number one industry and I love the fact that the government disbanded the military in 1948 citing it as a threat to democracy.
That the old military barracks in San Jose is now a butterfly enclosure is surely the greatest demonstration of pacifism possible.
Costa Rica is geographically in Central America but is as Central American as Scotland is English.
It's years ahead of its neighbours and for two weary, near geriatric travellers, that feels good.
No comments:
Post a Comment