I have been putting off writing about this entry for a long time because there are some parts of this day that I don’t exactly want to recall in detail. It’s the yin and the yang, I suppose, and while I didn’t expect the “perfect” trip, I didn’t expect this either… Costa Rican roads are shit. At one of the tours I overheard 2 old ladies talking about how they spent over 5 hours on the road from Monteverde to La Fortuna by jeep. Hell if I was going to take a bus. Fortunately, there are other options. 1 is jeep – boat – jeep. The other is horse – boat – jeep. Guess which one I did? How strange is it that, in this day and age, it is actually faster to take a horse to another town, than to take a car? I had some reservations about taking this trip bc I knew that the trip to Lake Arenal (where I would catch the water taxi) was one that was fairly strenuous for a horse to take- so strenuous that many have been known to die on the trail. After talking to my innkeeper friends, they told me that they really had a good relationship with the guy who owned the horses and that they always let the horses rest 3 days inbetween 1- way journeys. We had to wait until the end of the day to book the trip. By that time, I was told that 7 other people would be on my tour, and therefore, I would receive a reduced rate. I would have taken the tour anyway, but I was relieved to know that I was not going at it alone, and hopeful that I would meet others on the trip.
The day was as beautiful as they come – apparently a rarity for that time of year, in that area. I woke up early and waited for my shuttle. The driver spoke very little English, but was so friendly with such a huge smile. On our way up the mountain, driving on mud and rocks that Costa Rican’s call “roads,” we passed a young girl and small boy walking along the street. The driver slowed his car and paused near them. I thought we were going to pick them up. Instead, the girl lifted the boy through the window, where the driver leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. The boy was at first, happy, then instantly sad. I understood a little bit of their conversation – where the driver told the little boy that he had to work now and that he would see him later tonight – and to be a good boy. The little boy smiled weakly, and then waved goodbye. The driver turned back to look at me and gave me a grin that was both proud and apologetic. I smiled back.
Once we arrived at the lodge, I was ushered inside, where I waited in the breakfast room for the kitchen to pack my lunch. I met my guide – a short, stocky guy who looked like an equestrian version of Juan Valdez. He had the hat and the Guatamalen-like blanket thing hanging over his shoulder, mustache – the type of guy you’d expect to see only in movies. We shook hands, and he stuffed my sandwich into his tiny hand-knit backpack, and then led the way to the horses. We started at the top of Mirador Lodge, and then rode all the way down through a rainforest, across Cano Negro (a river) and then through open fields. For the most part, it was amazing. I say *most* bc 7 of the other people who were supposed to be on the tour didnt make it, meaning it was just me and the horse guide on this desolate trail where we only ever saw one other person the entire 4 hours. The guide only spoke Spanish, and I did my best to remember all I could to communicate with him. It was easy-going for the most part, except that my horse, Paiyaso, liked to run, and I dont know if youve ever ridden a horse beyond a flat trail before, but riding a horse was pretty intense. Especially when it gallops.
The first half of the trip was awkward and beautiful and funny and interesting. We rode through yellow-brown brush, then through some mud, then down into the rain forest, until we hit the valley, crossed the river, and then made our way to the lake. Every turn of every corner yielded a view more magnificent than the one before. It was like all the Western movies I have ever seen from the 1960s – colors so vivid, it was as if they were technicolor. Conversation was ok. I understood maybe 70% of what the guide was saying. Sometimes, I think he tried to fill the silence with his chatter. I just wanted to enjoy the scenery. He did tell me, however, that I was a pretty good horseman for someone who hasn’t ridden a horse too much in her life. I’m sure it’s something he tells all the tourists, but I bought it.
We stopped for lunch in the middle of the rainforest. It felt strange to eat my sandwich in front of the guide, so I offered him some of my sandwich. He refused. Again, we talked. This time he asked me the questions I wanted to avoid – boyfriend questions, what I like to do questions, how old are you questions – questions that someone asks when they are interested in you, not necessarily when they are interested in taking you on a ride on a trail on a horse. For the most part, it was just making conversation, and I was actually just glad that I was understanding what he said and that he could understand me.
Towards the end of the trip, I asked to stop near Cano Negro to take pictures. We hiked a little into the forest and walked near the stream. The guide took some pictures (he was so shitty with the camera – 4/5 of the pix had me w/my head cut off…). I asked to take some pictures of him for memories sake. I had jumped out to a rock in the middle of the stream to look around and take some pictures, and to touch the cool water. As I lept across stones back to the bank, the guide reached out his hand to assist me. I didn’t really need it, but I took it out of courtesy. As I made my last jump, I grabbed his hand, and then he pulled me towards him so that I ran into him. Thinking it was accidental, I instantly pulled away and started walking to my horse. The guide, however, never let go of my hand.
Instead he pulled me back towards him, and in this moment, where my mind was racing, calculating, and putting the pieces together, he took the opportunity to kiss me on the neck. At first, I couldn’t believe it. Did he just? What just happened? A part of me froze, unsure of what to think or feel. Again, I pulled away, trying to trick myself into thinking it had all been some mistake or accident. But he persisted, this time pulling me closer to him and then trying to kiss me.
It was only then where I thought – oh. fuck. A million different things ran through my head in that split second. I calculated about 10 different escape routes. I imagined the worst case scenario. I tried to remember how far it was back to the road, the hotel, the lake. I let my mind wander to the most unimaginable what if – what if he tried to do more than just kiss me. What if he wouldn’t take no. Somehow, logic prevailed. I remember thinking that my horse was within running distance, and my plan to push him down, kick him in the nuts, and run hard and fast to Paiyaso seemed very real and very feasible. In our brief struggle, I tried my best to remain calm. I didn’t want to give him any reason to do anything stupid. Stay calm. Get him away from you. Get on the horse. And ride as fast as you fucking can. That was my plan.
Finally, he let up.
There are 2 things I learned that day: 1. I learned that “no”; transcends all language barriers and 2. I really learned how to ride a horse. Because if there is such thing as a silver lining, it was that riding a horse in such a beautiful country, was one of the most insane and amazing experiences in my life. I mean, I made that thing run – gallop – as if my life (and I thought it was) was depending on it. And if it werent for the horse guide chasing me, it would have been one of the best moments of my life – me and the horse finding that mystical rhythm together, the wind blowing through my hair, the beauty of the terrain — that was perfection.
I don’t think I have ever encountered a more awkward and disturbing situation than that one. Afterwards, after coming to his senses, the guide apologized profuselyy – over and over again to the point where I just wanted to tell him to shut the fuck up. He also kept begging me to keep quiet, knowing full-well that he would lose his job if I so much as uttered a word. Ironically, before I left on my trip that day, the guys at the hostel had given me a card w/their names and number and told me to call if I ever got into any trouble. I still struggle with my decision to not say anything. A part of me thinks the whole thing was harmless. He didn’t try anything more than kiss me (aggressively, yes) and that more harm than good would come from him losing his job. Then another part of me feels so completely confused, angry and violated. What the fuck was he thinking? More than anything, I’m pissed that I will forever remember this beautiful ride through some of the most beautiful countryside I have ever seen, as something that was bittersweet. I can’t have the good memories of me and paiyaso and running through the fields, without also remembering how completely creeped out I was by him.
We arrived at the water-taxi in record time. So much so that I was the only person on the boat as the other people from the various jeeps had not yet arrived. Probably sensing the wild look in my eyes, he took me across Lake Arenal to the other side. God, what freedom to be on that boat, away from everything else. On the other side, I met up with the jeep that took me to my hotel in La Fortuna. I rode to Hotel Dorothy with a jeep full of Brits (coupled off and boring), and Canadians (complete with Canadian flags on their packs. If there is such as term as “Ugly Canadian” then these would be them. They were everything foreigners hate about Americans – loud, obnoxious, stupid, obssessed with beer, ridiculously dressed. And so fucking proud to be Canadian).
Hotel Dorothy is run by this boisterous guy from the Caribbean who the locals affectionately call “El Negro.” Their name, not mine. He walks around all day barefoot and shirtless, always on the telephone, wheeling and dealing. I really liked the place — it was quiet and in a residential neighborhood, and cheap – $8 a night for a single w/private bathroom and hot water. All the rooms were Caribbean in feel, and compared to some of the places Ive slept, I thought it was quite charming. A lot of the staff lives there or in connecting houses/rooms so it felt like I was staying at someones house. Especially since some of the staff discovered I could sort of speak Spanish, and were always so warm and friendly with me.
I met a young boy (I’m guessing in his late teens) – who’s name escapes me – who came to fix the lock on my hotel door. He was from Nicaragua and had the most infectious smile ever – so unthreatening and warm. Having spoken Spanish all day, I only wanted to speak English to him. He smiled and nodded, and we made an effort to use a lot of miming to get our points across. Finally, I gave in and spoke to him in (miraculously) decent Spanish. His eyes lit up and grew wide – “You speak Spanish,” he said with excitment in his voice. “You speak very well. Why didn’t you try to speak before?” I shrugged. He smiled. I smiled. We laughed. It was a good moment – unassuming and completely platonic – a good memory in a day speckled with a lot of not-so-good.
He is the type of person who – as a kid must have been very happy-go-lucky. The kind of kid who looked at you with puppy eyes and whose cheeks you couldn’t help but pinch. He was everything I was not and am not — always smiling, always so full of happiness. Every morning and every night, he would go out of his way to say hello and ask me how I was doing. At first, I was skeptical of him, resisting his questions with a terse and brief one syllable response. But then he won me over. After all that had happened, it was my conversations with him that made me feel as if I had a piece of home in this strange place, in a strange hotel, surrounded by strange people.
That night, I made friends with a couple from Denmark and a couple of boys from Israel. We ended up all going on the same (typical) Volcano tour which involved hiking through the rainforest, getting attacked by monkeys, and waiting at the edge of the volcano for the lava to flow. (At the beginning of the trip, I had a Canadian admirer. I lost him at the end to the slutty girls staying at our hotel. Shrug. No big loss). Our guide was a self-proclaimed true Indian who told stories that were either so fucking insane that they had to be real, or so fucking insane that he was full of shit. He would walk through teh forest and cut rubber trees, telling us that he made soccer balls and covered his feet in the sap (it would have taken a lot of sap). He also told us about how he was part of the rescue team when the plane crashed into the volcano in 2002. Either he led a completely amazing life or he’s the world’s biggest liar. The 2 Israelis were convinced it was the latter. I was trying to keep an open mind, but I couldnt understand how, if he had scaled to the top of the volcano – something maybe 1 percent of 1 percent of the population has ever done – how come was he so out of breath walking through the rainforest? Just a thought.
Apparently the lava flows all day (it sounds like the loudest thunder ever, or like cars crashing), but it is only until night that you can actually see the glowing lava rocks. It was all so Jurassic park. I guess I was expecting an eruption where lava seeped down from the mountain in sheets of liquid red. As it were, we were told that we were lucky to even see the volcano, as it is usually covered in clouds. We did see lava though, and it was still impressive. .
We ended the night at Baldi hotsprings – again, not what I expected. I was expecting more of a rustic thing, but it was very nice, but also very touristy. Any place that sells drinks for $5 or more – you know you are just getting taken for a ride. Most of the couples in the group ran off to be alone. The Canadian ran off with the airheads. And I was left w/the 2 Israelis – one who could barely speak English, and one who was pretty chatty. Still, it was awkward (the theme of the day). I didn’t want them to feel obligated to be with me and vice versa. We ended up having a few drinks, talking a ton about politics (like what the fuck is going on over in that Gaza strip?) and then, when the finest Aussie boy with the hottest body ever, who was totally eye-fucking me came over, he cockblocked me. This was so obviously not my day to be meeting men, and so, I finally just called it night.
And as always, my happy-go-lucky resident handyman (?) of Hotel Dorothy was there to greet me when our tour bus pulled in late that night. I was tired and hungry and in no mood to talk, but sometimes, all it takes is a simple smile from a practical stranger to make everything okay.
