(By the way, Shelly insisted on detailing every minuscule happening of our journey, so doubtless she will be able to contradict everything I here share with you. I shall cover the first half of the week, and then Ms Zhao shall conclude the journey.)
Our flight to Houston left at 6 in the morning on Monday, and so we arrived at the airport at 5. Shelly insisted we drink her disgusting raspberry-flavored Smirnoffs which she had brought to the airport, so before going through security we all chugged a bottle. In the waiting room, Zhao promptly fell asleep, and I commenced re-teaching myself Spanish so that I could fake my way through any necessary interactions with the locals. This was marginally successful. I know all the phrases for safe sex, now, although ordering in a restaurant is still a bit difficult.
Anyway, we got to Houston unscathed; Jim disappeared for a while to buy an omelet burrito, but we thought he may have run home and abandoned us since it was his fair city of origin. Then some guy wasn't allowed on the flight to Liberia because his passport was in bad condition, which was unfortunate as it was for his honeymoon. Bugger. Well then we proceeded onto the plane, and I tried to sleep but couldn't really and watched instead August Rush, which is a rather terrible movie. Don't see it, my friends.
We arrived at the Liberia International Airport about three hours later, and "airport" here is not what "airport" is in America. An "airport" in Liberia does not actually have an indoor area like one would imagine, but rather you walk off the plane, across the runway, and into a small pavilion-like shaded area where someone stamps your passports and you collect your bags. You then walk through customs, but since they don't say anything to you, you don't actually realize you've walked through customs until you're assaulted by about a hundred taxi drivers shouting out "Taxi!" Our taxi driver, William, was very nice -- as far as I could tell from our limited and strained conversation (I pretend to speak Spanish often on this trip, as you shall see). Jim thought he said $50 when we arrived at our hotel instead of $15, which was amusing. *LAUGH SIGN LIGHTS UP* Our hotel room was a tiny cramped room for three people with a shared bathroom; it was small enough so that Jim could sit on his bed with his back against the wall, stretch out his legs and kick the side of my bed. There was also an ant invasion every night once the sun went down. And as one last thing, there are rarely hot showers in Costa Rica, and the rare hotels with them cost a good deal more.
Liberia is located in Costa Rica's dry and dusty province of Guanacaste; the temperatures hovered in the 90s during our time there. It was rather exhausting just to walk around, as we soon found out when trying to locate the travel agency listed in our guidebook. Funny thing about trying to find stuff, however, is that it is IMPOSSIBLE. Because literally there are no street signs or addresses in Costa Rica. The very address of Hotel Guanacaste, where we stayed, was: 100 metres norte del Burger King. We walked around for a good hour looking for this tourist agency (which seemed clearly labeled in the book), and after asking directions twice, discovered that there is not such thing as a tourist or information bureau in Liberia. Conceding defeat, we ate dinner at a place called Rancho Dulce, which served delicious casados, which is a rather scrumptious dish, and frescas (milky fruit drinks, which are heavenly).
The next day, we decided to head out to the national park Rincón de la Vieja and climb a volcano. We had booked a shuttle the previous evening, which arranged to meet us at our hotel at 7 a.m. And like "airport" means something else in Costa Rica, so does "shuttle". Our "shuttle" was, in fact, a Land Rover with 7 people plus the driver crammed into it, including two Germans and a woman named Caroline. We drove along a painfully long stretch of gravel road, dodging potholes and a herd of cattle (Costa Rica is infamously known for its terrible road conditions), and arrived at the ranger station of the national park. One park fee and a map later, and having stuffed our bags full of food we bought at a supermercado the day before, we set off on our 16km hike.
The first 6-or-so kilometers were in a forest full of white-faced monkeys and birds. An older French couple kept passing and being passed by us; the woman had an intense set of hiking poles and she would always cheerfully greet us. We then came out into a lush oasis of sorts, with green vegetation all around us not unlike one would see on Lost. After a steep climb, the vegetation began to get more and more sparse until it sharply resembled Frodo's trek to Mordor. We should have heeded the sign's statement of "Acceso difícil" because it was quite difficult at times. We were following a path that was poorly marked with orange pebbles and every once in a while an arrow, though several times we had to turn around. Then there was an endless amount of walking up a gradual slope of barren nothingness before we finally reached our goal -- the active volcano crater. There was an amazingly milky-blue liquid inside, not unlike the milk that's left after all the Lucky Charms are gone, due to some kind of chemical reaction of sulfur and water or whatever -- I don't understand. There was also the sulfuric smell of eggs surrounding the area; we had originally planned to rest for a bit and eat, but a sign told us not to stay for more than 15 minutes as the gases "se pueden ser toxicos."
We then had to have a mad dash back to the base, as the "shuttle" was leaving at 4. We stopped to stuff nutella, bread, guava jam and almonds down our gullets before slipping and sliding down the crumbly, rocky path we had come up. Shelly kind-of hurt her ankle in the last part of the trail, but we made it only five minutes late, covered in dirt, sweat and other grime of the outdoors.
On Wednesday, we decided to head to Montezuma, which is reportedly the happenin' beach of Península de Nicoya, as it were. "Happenin'" meaning: surfing, wildlife, waterfalls, hiking, and a lack of evil developers and turtle-murderers. I had cleverly used the guidebook to discover a route that went like this: a bus from Liberia to Puntarenas, a ferry from Puntarenas to Paquera, and another bus from Paquera to Montezuma. The problem was, however, finding where and when the buses came. Long story short, because this post is getting to epic proportions, we managed to find the bus stop, and after asking five people and running into Caroline and the Germans from the "shuttle", we were at the right place.
We took an unairconditioned, crowded and bumpy bus to Puntarenas, which stopped every two minutes to pick up someone along the road who ended up getting off the next time it stopped. At Puntarenas, we followed Caroline (whose Spanish is far superior to ours) onto a local bus which took us to the ferry, where we were able to sit in an air-conditioned room and eat food. Then we again dumbly followed Caroline onto another bus, having handed our luggage to whom we assumed to be the driver, and drove for another hour. They then made us all get off and move our luggage onto another bus that headed on toward Montezuma. No, I don't know why. I will say, however, that traveling in Costa Rica is a dusty, bumpy and surreal adventure.
Having made it to Montezuma six hours after departing Liberia -- somewhat amazed, as I had highly doubted our actual abilities to navigate our way across the northwest of the country -- we commenced looking for a place to stay. Jim asked at two places, which were far too expensive, so we continued up a very steep hill to the Luna Llena, a German-run hotel full of cabins shrouded in trees and shrill monkey calls. The guy who seemed to be in charge looked to be sixteen and always wandered around without his shirt on. There was also a dog that slept splayed out on the floor like a bear rug -- seriously, he never moved! Once he was in front of the bathroom door, and I had to shove him aside to open the door, and he didn't even budge or otherwise acknowledge me. A brief hike up the stairs led to our rooms, and sitting out on the communal porch and dining area, I would always see monkeys jumping from tree to tree.
We spent the rest of the day's dwindling sun walking along the beach. It was my first time seeing the Pacific Ocean, which is far more powerful than the calm waves of the Atlantic. Shelly collected shells, and a woman nearby beat on some drums.
And so here I shall end it. Have at it, Shooly.
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