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| Costa Rica Honeymoon, Fall 2000: Alajuela, Day 3
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Wednesday, October 25, 2000: Yeeee-ha! We tame the Rio Pacuare in a blow-up raft
When our alarm went off at 5 a.m., we were none too happy. Aren't you supposed to sleep in slothfully on a honeymoon? Well, anything in the name of fun. We dragged our groggy carcasses out of bed and over to the hotel lobby, where a hired driver (not Oscar, but a buddy of his) was waiting to take us to a rendezvous point for our biggest adventure thus far: a whitewater rafting trip on Class III and IV rapids on the Rio Pacuare. (A side note: David has rafted several times. I, however, have not. When making the reservations, we convinced the guy on the other end of my e-mail that I was "very athletic" and therefore, despite my complete lack of experience, a good candidate for this day-long trip. He was easily convinced. I, however, was not. I'm not sure how being "athletic" can save you from drowning--perhaps you do it with more coordination than your average couch potato?--but I was nervous as all heck about this endeavor.) At any rate, we were dropped off at the Hampton Inn at 6 a.m. (yes, it looked exactly like one you'd find stateside, if you discounted the guard armed with a semiautomatic rifle in the parking lot--he was there to thwart auto thieves, he said), near the San Jose airport, where we lounged around in the lobby (and hungrily eyed the guest buffet) while waiting for our guide. When he showed up, he made a beeline for the coffee and croissants and encouraged us to follow suit. We clambered aboard the tour bus (egad) and puttered off to pick up the rest of our intrepid bunch of rafters. Turned out we had quite a busful as we hit the road: Allison and Dalton, a married pair of American expats who'd relocated to Costa Rica to rake in the bucks with an online gambling venture (Dave took notes); Allison's visiting dad; Amy and Philip, a married couple from Georgia; a couple named Mercedes and Jose, from Mexico; and a trio of local Ticos who didn't offer their names.
We headed out again and paused an hour or so later at a hole-in-the-wall "soda" (kinda like a taco stand, but indoors) where I joyfully discovered Pringles for sale behind the counter (I'd been craving salty American snacks for two days now. So sue me, I'm a heathen.). There we picked up the final member of our group, a woman named Laurel who was traveling solo and bunking at the tiny guest house attached to the soda for $5 a night. Her Spanish was flawless and she had dark curly hair and olive skin, we at first mistook her for a native, but it turned out she was actually a pediatrician from Santa Barbara. (So much for our powers of observation.) Laurel told us her accommodations had no running water or toilet. I must say, as honeymoon hotels go, I preferred Xandari. (We later learned that this was Laurel's second or third time out on this trip. We think she had a thing for our guide, Fernando. Well, he was fairly hot, and a nice guy to boot, so I guess we can't blame her.)
At long last, we reached our staging area around 11 a.m. (this involved a precipitous descent over a frighteningly rocky road) and unloaded. We were met by a gang of river guides. Fernando outfitted us in dorky helmets (Dave looked like he was about to get shot out of a cannon because his was a tad oversized) and life vests, then told us to jump into the boats. Did I say boats? I meant to say, flimsy blow-up things. OK, so they weren't that flimsy, but there's something a little intimidating about trusting your life to plastic and air. Fernando gave us some pointers, taught us how to heed his commands, and showed us how to hook our legs into the boat so we wouldn't fall out...and told us what to do if we *did* fall into the drink.
Along the way, a team of rescue guides kept pace with us in nimble little river kayaks. (Dave now wants one.) That made us feel a little better about being out in the middle of the jungle on a raging river. (And, well, to be honest, it wasn't THAT raging. Dave said indeed, some of the rapids were Class IV, which can be gnarly, but for the most part it was just a ton of fun.) We paddled through lush, dense jungle, where vines trailed into the water and cormorants and snowy egrets flew past. We saw literally dozens of waterfalls, from tiny trickles to cascading streams. Gorgeous! The river banks were impossibly steep in some areas...would've been tough to climb out. Here and there we saw cables and hand baskets stretched across the river, evidence that people actually do live in these remote areas.
Now we hit the more difficult rapids -- bigger thrills, but more work. We actually managed to lose David on one big drop. One moment he was there, the next, he was bobbing in the river. Our second raft group hauled him aboard, and we gave him a ton of grief for being the only one to get tossed into the water. Heh heh. A couple of hours later, our journey came to end, but not until we'd survived spots nicknamed Blender, Meat Grinder, and Surprise. We even "surfed" beneath one rushing cascade by aiming upriver at it, which was pretty cool. We had a long, wet ride home. Ugh. David and I had not thought to bring dry clothes (lame!), so we were damp and drippy the rest of the day. We drove through San Jose dropping off our other passengers; it was not a pretty sight. I finally believed all the people who'd told me the city wasn't really worth touring. Lots of dark, run-down neighborhoods; bars on every window; houses hidden behind gates and, in some cases, barbed wire; diesel fumes thick and pungent all around us. I wouldn't have felt safe at all on foot...too many twists and turns in the streets, lots of dark alleys and dead ends. Finally, we were dropped off back at the Hampton Inn (we were the last stop, naturally), where this time Oscar met us. As usual, he was right on time. We headed back to a quick dinner at Xandari, and tumbled into an early bed.
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We drove off into the hills, en route to (hurray) breakfast. Ate at a definite tourist trap: an enormous, cafeteria-style place obviously set up to accommodate busloads of gringos on their way to river rafting. But the food was super tasty (rice, beans, fried plantains...I could get used to this), and we got to see a couple of real, live toucans! (OK, they were in a cage, but they were really cute.)
Anyway, we drove...and drove...and drove...(ugh), and to pass the time, Dave decided to talk politics. (Bad move.) He promptly alienated Philip, who (it turned out) was a rabid Republican who though the sun rose and set on George Bush...even tried to convince Dave that Bush had already done more for the environment than Gore could ever do. (I feigned sleep, lest I leap over the seat and attempt to douse Philip with my environmentally acceptable sunscreen.) Finally, Amy jumped in and forbade Philip to utter another word, and he and Dave made peace with a wager: whomever's candidate was elected, the other had to buy dinner. (Postscript: You may recall that George Bush finagled his way into office, so I guess technically we owe Phil a steak. Luckily, I don't think we exchanged phone numbers.)
We split up into two rafts...and then we were off! I was scared out of my mind for all of three seconds, before the fear gave way to total, complete exhilaration. It was so incredibly fun! It was like riding a bucking bronco, but like a carnival ride at the same time. There was this great sense of teamwork among all the paddlers (except with Mercedes, who had no clue how to paddle in rhythm and kept whacking my arm with her oar, damn it) and this huge feeling of success when we made it down a big rapid in one piece.
We broke for lunch at a camp owned by our outfitter (Rios Tropicales), where we hiked up to a waterfall and swimming hole (and jumped in totally clothed. Hell, we were wet anyway!). Had a quick lunch of sandwiches, plantain chips, and cookies, then started off again.