Wednesday, February 17, 2010

Hiking Corcovado

Last week, my girlfriend Elizabeth took a short break from her life as a Teach for America member in Miami, and came to visit me. Elizabeth (everyone calls her “Z”), comes from an outdoorsy family, which is just like mine, if you consider the sculpture gardens of museums outdoors. Since I have discovered an affinity for the great outdoors during my time here in Costa Rica, Z and I decided to take our five days together and hike across Costa Rica’s largest and most remote national park: Corcovado.

Every time Z arrives in Costa Rica, I feel as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders. She is classically beautiful and very intelligent. She works in the Miami-Dade public school system as a geography and civics teacher in a “D” middle school. The neighborhood in which she works is unsavory, and the children can be difficult. Z grapples with the same problems that I do as a Peace Corps volunteer. With so much in common (we both went to Michigan, have similar work, have an unhealthy obsession with fine foods and wines), it was only a matter of time before we came together. For the first time in years, I have found myself in love.

With Z in my arms, we boarded our small Nature Air plane headed for Puerto Jimenez. Normally, I am quite frugal here in Costa Rica. However, the bus ride to Puerto Jimenez lasts ten uncomfortable hours, whereas the flight lasts forty-five short minutes. So Z and I splurged and bought ourselves two extra days of vacation by winging our way south toward the desolate Osa Peninsula of the south Pacific coast. I peered down as we flew, admiring the blond mountains of the central valley, the Cathedral point peninsula of Manuel Antonio, the unique “whale’s tail” spit at Bahia Ballena, and finally the untouched wilderness of the Osa. Staring down at Corcovado as our tiny plane descended, I whispered to Z, “there’s nobody there.” I was right.

The heat smacked us in the face as we deplaned. It was welcoming for me; the weather of Jimenez is comparable to that of Puntarenas. This was Z’s first time in the overbearing Costa Rican heat. We were both glad that we had an air-conditioned room waiting for us at the fantastic Cabinas Jimenez.

We strolled through the small town, passing marisquerias, sodas and the promenade that lines the shores of the Gulfo Dulce. Immediately, I knew that Puerto Jimenez would be very different from the towns I know on the central Pacific. It was calm, safe, and clean.

That night, we took it easy. We had a short meeting with our guide, Rodolfo, at the tour company’s office. Pointing to the map, he showed us our route, and mentioned animals that we may see along the way. Rodolfo was a handsome Tico, who was clearly very experienced. After thanking the genial Rodolfo, we went to a restaurant where we ate fish that was clearly caught that day. Back in the room, we got our packs ready, and went to sleep.

When the alarm went off a bit after four in the morning, I jumped up and got myself ready. Z looked at me like I was crazy and caught a few more minutes of sleep. After coating myself in a film of sunscreen and bug spray, I was ready for the adventure to begin. Little did I know that what was coming my way would wipe the boyish smile off my face.

Rodolfo and his driver picked us up in a white, four-door pickup at five-thirty. I didn’t really give much thought to him when he said that my pack was a bit heavy as he tossed it in the back of the truck. I told him that it was the two big bottles of water that I had packed. “Uh-huh,” he said.

We drove on a newly paved road that was evidence of the growing popularity of the Osa. We stopped for breakfast at a little shack of a soda. As Z and I put away fried eggs, gallo pinto, coffee and avocado halves, I chatted it up with the proprietors and Rodolfo. I was giddy.

After a few kilometers, we pulled off the paved road and left civilization. At one point, we stopped and Rodolfo pointed out a pair of toucans eating their breakfast in the trees. The toucans were fun to look at. Their bodies are small, yet their beaks are huge. It is a wonder that they can fly with those neon colored things hanging off of their faces. Rodolfo then pointed to the other side of the road, where several scarlet macaws were playing in the branches. For those who are unfamiliar with scarlet macaws, think big parrots, but with deep red, blue and yellow feathers. The colors are so strikingly beautiful that it looks as if someone had painted them on. After watching them fly around, we got back in the truck and kept driving toward the park entrance.

A few kilometers further, we came to a river that split the road in two. “Shit,” I thought. “The road is out. What are we going to do?” My heart missed a few beats when I realized that the driver was not slowing down, but speeding up. With a few bumps, he flew the truck into the river, and drove right through it. After this happened a couple of times, I learned that the roads in those parts simply went through rivers if they weren’t deeper than two feet. So through the rivers we went until we reached the wooden structures of the Los Patos ranger station: the entrance to Corcovado National Park.

The driver waved to Rodolfo, Z and I, and drove off, leaving us with forty-five kilometers of hiking ahead of us. Each of us sprayed liberal amounts of high-deet bug spray onto our limbs and began our hike. The first day of hiking was through primary rainforest, which meant that it had never been touched by humans. With the lush foliage walling either side of the trail, we made our way up and down the hills. My hands immediately began to swell, and my arms started to tingle from all of the poisonous deet I had applied. Up and down we went, and before I knew it, I had sweat through every item of clothing on my body. Worried about dehydration, I took big gulps from my bottle.

Rodolfo led us through the paths effortlessly. He wore a small backpack and a tiny water bottle. Z walked behind him, and I behind her. As difficult as it was, we kept up with Rodolfo, who had the manner of a boy taking a light walk though the woods. We clipped away the kilometers at a rapid pace, which made both Z and I incredibly tired. I biffed it a few times, rolling my ankle on the omnipresent tree roots.

Regardless of the pace, I was happy. I kept thinking about how lucky I was to get to see such a beautiful place. My mind wandered to pure places. I thought about God, and how only he could create such beautiful birds and trees and animals. My mind was floating; I was high on the rainforest.

After a few hours, we stopped at a river to take a break. Z and I took several swigs from my bottles, while Rodolfo sat on the bank, smiling at the sun. We already looked worked, yet Rodolfo had not even broken a sweat. He took a small sip from his bottle and looked at me.

“You sweat a lot, eh?”

“Yeah,” I replied. “That’s why I packed extra water. I sweat so much that I get dehydrated quickly”

“What do you mean extra water?”

It was at this point, that Z and I realized that Rodolfo did not have the two big bottles of water that he told us he would bring. The smile on my face fell away. Z and I gave each other looks that said “oh, fuck.” Rodolfo picked up on this and said “this river water is fresh. It is safe to drink.” I looked up at Z who gave me a sharp, warning glare.

“I’ve already had Giardia once,” she said. “You go ahead if you want to.”

I stopped drinking my water and put the bottle away. Dehydration is one thing, parasites are another. We stood up to continue the hike.

“How much ground did we cover?” I asked

“About five kilometers,” Rodolfo responded. “We have about nineteen more to go.” I frowned at Z. “But the rest of the hike is flat.” I smiled at Z. “So we are going to have to pick up the pace!” I grimaced.

So we left the riverbank, and hiked so fast that I felt like I was running. At this point, I was already exhausted and began the long process of keeping my mind off of the immense amount of ground that we had to cover. At first, it was exciting; I imagined that I was Daniel Day Lewis in the climax of The Last of the Mohicans. The music started playing in my head, and for a while, it worked. After a bit, I fell out of the role that my head had created for myself. Somehow, “Old MacDonald had a Farm” crept into my head because Rodolfo had mentioned something about pigs. This played in my head for a good while, until I realized what was happening and made it stop. I can assure you, at this point, I was feeling the beginning stages of dehydration.

I switched the song in my head to "Fugee-La" by The Fugees, and that raised my spirits for a moment. Then I became so miserable, that I wanted to punch my past-self for floating on air at the beginning of the hike. I began to thing of all the possible ways that the hike could be worse: if I was in Nam, and Charlie was behind those giant trees; if someone was chasing me with a knife; if I didn’t have Z there with me; if I was lost; if I had a hangnail on my toe; if I had the flu. This is what ran through my mind as my body rapidly leaked water that I didn’t have to replace it.

As we hiked the final kilometers of our journey, things got pretty bad. I, of course, did not tell this to Z or Rodolfo, because I am a man. However, I do remember us stopping and Rodolfo pointing out a unique tree. I looked at the tree and it slowly began to morph into different sizes and shapes as if I was on acid. “That’s a nice tree, Rodolfo,” I slurred. “Now, let’s go.”

With a kilometer or so to go, I found myself more stumbling than walking. By this time, I had developed an unbearable chafed rash between my legs, and my hiking shoes had cut into my ankles, drawing blood. Rodolfo stopped us, went into the jungle, and came back holding two lemons. He cut one in half and handed Z and I some lemon. I looked at him with total confusion. Would the lemon quench my thirst? Are the liquids enough to make an impact? I sucked juice from the lemon and looked back at Rodolfo with pure anger. The lemon was sour as hell and only made me thirsty. At this point, I was not sure what was going on.

After twenty-four kilometers of hiking, we emerged from the jungle into a clearing. Across a great green lawn was the Sirena ranger’s station. Z and I heaved off our packs, took off our mud-soaked shoes, and sat down on comfortable Adirondack chairs. Rodolfo brought us each a giant bottle of water, which we promptly downed. Several people were sitting on the porch of the compound, and looked at us with interest. These were all people who had arrived by boat or plane. A couple of them began asking us questions which I answered in a language that was not entirely English. Z and I kissed, and sat for a while regaining our strength. Rodolfo came over and informed us that we had done the 24 kilometers in six and a half hours: half an hour short of his record.

The Sirena ranger’s station is a surreal place. Surrounded by untamed rainforest for dozens of miles in every direction, the compound is completely isolated. About three-hundred meters down a grass landing strip from the beach, all supplies and materials are brought by boat and plane. The place was an oasis for us, a hallucination.

After catching our breaths on the porch, Rodolfo showed us around the grounds. We would be staying in a tent which was in a shared, screened-in room. There was a dining hall, a few dorm rooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom with showers. He told us to shower, and then check each other’s whole bodies for ticks. I looked at Z and gave her a wanton look. We smiled for the first time in hours.

After peeling ticks off of our bodies, we suited up again for our late afternoon hike to the beach. Feeling rejuvenated by the water and shower, I was chatty again. We were on our way to the mouth of the Sirena river. After a paltry kilometer’s walk through the woods, we emerged onto the most deserted beach that I have ever seen. For miles, there were no people, houses, buildings, or any sign of civilization. We realized just how remote Sirena was.

My whole life, I have been obsessed with sharks. I did projects on them in elementary school; Shark Week is a holy time for me. Therefore, my excitement grew as we strolled along the beach toward the river mouth known to be the best shark watching spot in Costa Rica. This was the moment that I was waiting for.

The sun inched its way toward the horizon, seeming to hover over the blue ocean. We gazed out at the spot where the river meets the ocean, looking for fins. Suddenly, there they were: big bull sharks. They looked black with the sun behind them. Sporadically, one would pop its dorsal and tail fin out of the water, revealing its size. Stalking the shallow waters for fish popping out of the river, the sharks always can be found at Boca Sirena. After years of studying sharks, I finally saw one in the wild. It was exhilarating.

After a bit of shark-watching, Rodolfo took us away from the ocean to the banks of the Sirena River. Z and I stepped up and felt very glad to be on the south bank; on the opposite side lounged three giant crocodiles. One lay with his mouth open, exposing rows of large, white, razor-sharp teeth. Two of them seemed very relaxed, but one was walking around. As we watched them sun themselves, we grew as tired as they must have been. As the sun sank lower and lower, we abandoned the beach and made our way back to the station.

After a surprisingly good dinner in the dining hall, Z and I crawled into our tent. We curled up together and asked Rodolfo what time it was. 6:55. We spent the rest of the evening telling each other stories of how we met, which surely induced the vomiting of everyone else in the room. That night, we slept like logs.

Once again, we were awake at four, and hiking by a bit after five. This time, I had no illusions about what I was getting into. We had nineteen kilometers to hike, half of which was on the sandy beach. The cuts on my ankles made every step feel as if someone was cutting my Achilles tendon with a razor. My inner thighs were on fire from the rash, which made me walk bow-legged. My shoulders felt like they were being stabbed with daggers because my pack was so heavy. I was not a happy camper.

For someone who generally likes long walks on the beach, I was miserable. Every step was difficult because the sand gave so much. I found myself winded before we even ate breakfast. I admired Z for making it look easy as she glided across the deserted beaches. Rodolfo still had not released a bead of sweat, which made me hate him a little. Soaked with sweat, I took it one step at a time: “mule consciousness” as my father calls it.

While grueling and painful, the hike was exciting. Right away, we saw the rare Tapir running on the beach and bathing in a river. We saw monkeys, pisotes, anteaters, toucans, scarlet macaws and many interesting trees. The beach itself was both beautiful and haunting. At dawn, the beach looked smoky and mysterious. Shedding trees loomed over the sand and off of the bluffs and headlands. We were the only ones for many miles, swallowed by the massive park.

This time, I did not think about Vietnam or The Fugees. The pain of the hike was all-encompassing. It made it impossible to think about the beauty around me. Because of this, I collapsed in joy when we reached a resort at the exit of the park. Z, Rodolfo and I drank water, and relaxed after crossing the park’s south boundary. I slept in a hammock for half an hour before realizing that we still had three more kilometers more to hike on the beach to our rendezvous point with the white pick up. Feeling a bit revitalized by sleep, I strapped on my sandals and joined Z for the last leg of the journey.

These were the worst moments of my life. I had to stop frequently and rest. Z was a saint and walked with me. I was ready to kill Rodolfo for no reason other than the fact that he still hadn’t broken a sweat. By the time we reached the truck, I was considering the possibility that Rodolfo was a robot. I still ponder this sometimes.

The two hour ride from the town of Carate back to Puerto Jimenez was just pure. Z and I had done it: 45 kilometers in a matter of hours. When it came time to get out of the truck, neither of us could walk; our muscles had seized up. After falling into our rooms, we showered, checked for ticks and went to sleep.



It is only a few days since I returned from Corcovado, and my body still aches a bit. Looking back on it, I am very proud. Was it miserable? Yes. Did I enjoy it? Absolutely. Would I do it again? No.

I am glad that I had an opportunity to see a place that people rarely get to see. I am thrilled that I was able to do it with someone that I care about. As for our tour guide, I am still a bit angry that he never broke a sweat. Overall, Corcovado was an amazing experience. As I begin to close my Peace Corps service over the following months, I cherish these experiences. Before I know it, I will be back in New York, dreaming about sharks and tapirs and crocodiles. Until then, I will just have to take advantage of the fact that I am living the Tico adventure.