We landed on an island on Costa Rica's northern Caribbean coast. Now by island, I mean a narrow strip of land that was barely wider than the runway. The flight had been delightful, if a little shaky, in the twelve-seater plane. We were there to see a tiny hamlet called Tortuguero (place of the turtles) which was accessible only by boat or plane. I had to laugh at the airport, or lack thereof. It was a cement closet that was closed. No one greeted the plane except the water-taxi drivers that pulled up in boats to ferry us down a small portion of salt-river to the one-sidewalk town.
The brackish river that flowed through mangroves and islets was known unofficially as Costa Rica's Amazon. Home to crocodiles, caiman, river otters, manatees, and of course endangered sea turtles, it was a haven for wildlife that I couldn’t wait to see.
We put our luggage on the bow of the 23ft panga and climbed in for the short ride down the river to town. Our guide pointed out a family of howler monkeys, a two-toed sloth, and some exotic birds along the way.
I love getting off the beaten path. The harder it is to get somewhere, the happier I am to get there. So when we pulled on shore and disembarked I was thrilled.
The town had a few little places to stay and we chose the oldest home on the island turned bed and breakfast. Miss Junie’s. Miss Junie was the granddaughter of the original cacao plantation owner. We met her in the kitchen where, with a polka-dotted scarf covering her head, she prepped soup, greeted us in creole English, and welcomed us to her home. After a short conversation about her grandfather and the history of the place, she gave us the keys to our room. Happily, we gathered our things and climbed the wooden stairs to a balcony that stretched the entire length of the building and offered salt-river views. Our room had wood floors, a low double bed with an old quilt, and a small writing desk. It was simple enough and smelled like my grandmother’s attic on a warm spring day. Off in the distance, I could hear the ocean.
I was in Heaven.
We left our bags and ate a simple lunch in the large, fancily appointed, but mostly vacant dining room and headed out to explore the town.
The sidewalk was lined with brightly colored, wooden homes. Many were on stilts to fend off any rising tide. A couple small restaurants boasted signs proclaiming fresh fish, grilled chicken, seafood soup, and local fruit. A tiny store with treasures of wood and shells and beautiful art caught my eye. I spent a few minutes touching things. A woman walked by with a bruise on her cheek and dark glasses on her face. I remember her yelling at a man across the way. Trouble is everywhere in the world these days. I wished I could have asked if she was OK. But, we turned and avoided any confrontation. Probably wise.
The town was so small it only took about a half-hour to meander the whole length of it, taking our time and looking at everything.
The weather wasn’t good. By early afternoon, the rains came and we found ourselves ducking under the eaves of a restaurant. Much of Costa Rica is rain forest. The high humidity and heavy down pours create an environment of lush life. But dealing with the conditions is not always easy. We finally braved the rain and ran back to our hotel, although the running seemed pointless as I was as wet as if I had jumped fully clothed into the sea by the time I was half-way there.
I changed into something dry and settled myself on the porch under the overhang in one of the many rocking chairs. From there I watched the birds playing in the rain.
We had planned to catch a boat to Limon the next day, but the rain kept us an extra day at Miss Junie’s.
I was OK with that.
It gave me the chance to chat with the workers and learn a little more about the history of the place. Miss Junie’s grandfather moved there and built the grand house back in the banana glory days. He planted cacao trees everywhere, but they had since stopped producing and the entire plantation had become a refuge for endangered sea turtles with a small town supporting the endeavor.
We called the guy who made the three-hour run down the salt river to town. He said he would meet us at eight the next morning on the canal shore. He didn’t make the run every day. In fact, it was hard to get hold of him. But in the end, he said he had a few other travelers who wanted to go that way. So, we agreed to leave the next morning barring any big storms.
Eight o’clock saw us with bags in hand and climbing on a narrow panga with a few other brave travelers. The sky was blue and the day promised sunshine. We left the town behind with a gentle wake following us down the broad, dark waterway.
As we left the town behind, we picked up speed. And then, much to my delight, we turned off the main throughway down a narrow winding canal. Trees canopied overhead and sunshine came through in streaks here and there as we raced along. A great white heron stood in the reeds and osprey flew overhead. When the waterway grew even narrower, our captain didn’t slow a bit, but rather pushed the boat to its limits. We careened so far over as we wound around the bends that the water nearly came over the side. I trailed my fingers in the racing water and felt the sting of the spray.
At one point, the water became so shallow that we slowed almost to a stop. The captain expertly picked his way through rushes and sandbanks. A twelve-foot crocodile rested on the shore just beyond reach. And then we were off again.
I often wonder what would happened were we to have had a dramatic engine failure an hour-and-a-half into our trip. It wouldn’t be my first experience with engine failure hours from civilization. I would like to believe the captain would just call one of his buddies on the cell phone. But, even with all our modern technology these days, you never know.
We finally came to the mouth of the river and stopped to watch a flock of egrets walking in the sand.
There is something fantastic about being far away from the bustle of humanity.
As we came into Limon, I was shocked back into the rat-race by the appearance of huge tankers, rusted metal warehouses, and crumbling cement office buildings. What a contrast.
I adjusted my mind to fend off the sickening feeling of man kind's pollution of our glorious earth. I love people, I love the workers down by the docks, I love the dirty-faced kids and the moms who are struggling to raise children alone. I just wish I could put these two parts—the beauty of the earth and the beauty of the people—together in a way that honored both.