Tubing in Costa Rica

We were south of San Jose, and it was hot. We hadn’t bathed for a couple of days, and the river running alongside our sputtering old van was calling out to us. As the road wended its way through the mountains on our right, the river stayed on our left. Sometimes out of sight, it would peek behind the jungle. This jungle, in a struggle with civilizations progress, as it were, here in what was supposed to be the most civilized country in Central America.

Here in Costa Rica, there were no Sandanistas, no Contras. No Zapatistas with their faces hidden behind bandanas, or Shining Path guerillas fighting, still, for world communism. Here there were ranches, fincas, game preserves and fruit farms. Fruit farms as far as the eye could see. Pineapple, limes, lemons, mangoes, and oranges. Oh, the oranges. They were as plentiful as gravel on the road. For $1.00, you could buy a bag of oranges from any number of roadside vendors that would weigh upwards of 40 kilos. If the United Fruit Company had a legacy, it was to be found here in Costa Rica.

Daryl, my cousin, is helping look for an entrance to the river. The road is narrow, curving, and very dangerous. There are washouts every few kilometers, where the rains have brought the mountain on our right down to the road under our wheels. Driving, you have to watch out for the occasional donkey, pedestrian, pot-holes so large you need a map to get out of them, and these damn landslides. There is no chance to watch for an entrance to the river, so Daryl is taking that up, and doing so seriously. There are four of us, stuck in this van, with no air-conditioning, and we need a bath. Badly.

Four of us are trapped in this vehicle. A 1979 Chevrolet van that I had decided, back in Houston Texas, that I didn’t need anymore. We had been wanting to do something silly, and so we decided to try to drive this van to the Amazon basin. We knew we couldn’t succeed, or at least we didn’t think we could, but we were damn sure going to try.

The original plan included Daryl, my son Derek, (14 at the time.) and me to take off in this old, decrepit vehicle, and camp out along through Mexico, Central America, and parts of South America until finally the van gave out, then we would begin taking buses and any other forms of transport we might find until we reached the Orinoco. Once to the Orinoco, we would hire a boat and go downriver to the Amazon, then on to Leticia, from which we wanted to explore.

My idea was to find the Yano Mami tribe. One of the last warrior tribes in existence today. They do ritual combat where it is common for the loser to die from the wounds suffered. Ritual combat. These sound like a fun bunch of guys. The main idea was to escape everyday life, and do something crazy.

This was not a new concept. Derek and I had celebrated his last birthday, (13th)dodging bandits and guerillas in Honduras and El Salvador. They still haven’t gotten the border worked out with El Salvador, and every once in a while, they decide to shoot at each other from behind thatched huts, using old American and Soviet era arms that are left over from the ‘good ole days.’ That trip, also in an old van that I didn’t need anymore, ended up with us being on foot eventually, and hitchhiking, and taking various forms of public transport back to the USA. We may be crazy, but we had experience.

This trip had a twist. While telling my recently retired schoolteacher mother about our plans, she wrangled an invitation. Don’t ask me how, I still don’t understand. All I know is, in the back of the van, wrestling for space with Derek on the back seat, sat my mother, looking as though she were less bothered by the hardships the last two weeks of traveling through jungles than we ‘adventurers’ were. I had explained to her, no hotels, lots of danger, etc. all of which rolled right off her like so much water off a ducks back. She wanted to go on an adventure, and mine was the only one she was aware of, so she was here.

“There, turn in there!” shouted Daryl, pointing across the dash at a gravel path leading to the river.

I stomped on the brakes, and the van skidded and slid to a stop, as I cut the wheel left, aiming at the path toward the river.

Roads in Central America are terrible. They have holes, bumps, all kinds of obstacles. You cant imagine just how bad they are if you have never driven them. Just an example, on this trip, which was destined to last for 6 weeks, we THREW AWAY 14 tires. Threw away 14. That doesn’t count how many we repaired. 14 became so damaged they couldn’t be repaired.

If roads are bad, you cant imagine what paths are like. We hit that gravel path going too fast, and hurtled downward, with the tall grass of the jungle slapping at the windows and sides of the van noisily. This was meant for a burro, or some person walking, not a couple tons of American steel in the form of an oversized box.

With dust pluming behind, I slowed the beast, (Our name for the van.) to a manageable speed, made the curves, and the path opened up to a beautiful vista of the river. We parked at rivers edge, and felt thoroughly happy at our good fortune.

At first glance, we seemed to be isolated. You could hear the road up above, but couldn’t see it. Across the river, there was jungle. Up river was jungle and mountains, and just down river was a beautiful set of rapids, bubbling happily as we took in the glory of our discovery.

We bound into the water, shampoo and soap in abundance, and splash around knocking off the dust of the road, along with the misery of too close quarters. It feels good to be out, moving around, playing in the cool water.

I am drawn by the rapids. In the van, we have inner tubes from tires, and we sometimes use them to float on rivers. These rapids look just right. Not too large, not too fast, but they look like they could be exciting. We talk, and Derek and I decide to give them a shot. Daryl and mom want to stay upriver and rest. No problem!

Derek and I get the tubes, and we start off downriver. I am going first, but he is only 30 meters or so behind. The water here is lazy. It draws you slowly toward the foam, toward the high pitched rumble. As we get closer, the rapids look more imposing, and as the current grabs me, pulling me downriver quickly now. At some point, I realize I no longer have a choice in the matter. The river has taken control. I begin to think I may have made a mistake.

I am a big man. I weigh about 130 kilos. (Kilos sounds a lot nicer than pounds. That is about 285 pounds.) The water picked me up, and literally threw me about 5 meters in the air (15 feet.). I came down hard, into the frothy water, and slammed into a boulder beneath the surface. I knew, from experience in fast water, that I was in a situation that I shouldn’t be. This water was too fast, too strong, and too much for a man in a rubber donut. I turned and tried to yell to Derek to go back, just in time to see his tube shoot out from underneath him, and him go flying comically through the air. Feet pointing at the sky, he somersaulted above the water like a circus performer. It would have been beautiful to watch, had it not been for the stark terror gripping at my throat. There was no chance to help him, not right now. I was drug down into the water, savagely jabbed by limbs of fallen trees. Scraped, battered, tossed aimlessly by the destructive force of the river. I felt like a sock in an industrial washing machine. Flotsam in a tempest.

All I could do is try to avoid the worst dangers and bounce off the rocks until the water slowed down. I knew instinctively the worst was over, but it could still be dangerous, as it swept me downriver, my head bobbing up and down like a cork, sucking air and trying to spot those dangerous limbs.

With the same suddenness that it started, it was over. The water was peaceful again. The noise of the rapids played in my ear, but I had control again, and I could swim to shore. I did, looking around and finding Derek, who had somehow passed me and was already downriver, out of harms way, heading toward the bank.

As we climbed onto the shore, covered here with huge boulders, a familiar exhilaration swept through me. This is the feeling you get when you have been close to the edge, and came back. I had gone to the precipice, looked over, and hung on. The whole thing had lasted maybe 3 minutes, but three minutes is a long time. (Ask anyone who has boxed Mike Tyson early in his career.) Three minutes of pure pleasure would be almost torture. 3 minutes of primal struggle for survival does things to you. Things that maybe aren’t good for you, but they feel better than anything you can imagine.

We struggled our way up the craggy bank to where Daryl was still waiting, (Mom had followed us on the bank, expecting, I think, to have a lonely trip back.) We crashed into the still water, very happy with having gambled and not lost. We reveled in the glory of it all, and after a while, began to think of spending the night camped out alongside the river. It was very peaceful and secluded. Nobody would be bothered by our presence. This is one of the joys of adventure traveling. This is a spot that no white person is likely to see, or has seen. We are in the middle of nowhere, and nobody is…… Wait. There’s a noise.

Across the river, a man is coming toward the bank. He reaches down, and unties a canoe, not seen before because of the bulrushes. He glides expertly across the water, leaving a small wake as he approaches.

“Como estas?” (How are you?) I inquire, in the universal Spanish greeting.

“Bien, bien” he replies.

We talk a moment, and I discover there is an indigenous village on the other side of the river, and he runs a ferry service for the ladies of the village who go into town to sell produce, or to buy medicines or other things. He is coming now to give anyone a ride across who is on the bus, which will be stopping at the entrance to the path momentarily. He leaves us to go help the ladies with any large purchases, and we are left to talk amongst ourselves. We decided to spend the night there. It is quiet, peaceful, beautiful water right next to us, secluded from the road. Not much more could be offered by a campsite.

We did want to ask the permission of the guy running the ferry service. It’s always good to respect the locals. It keeps you out of trouble, and also helps you learn a lot more about where you are traveling. Most of the best stories come from around a kitchen table in a village home. That is where you can find the real people of a country.

After a while, he came down, with some shy ladies trailing behind. They went toward the canoe, while I engaged him in conversation. When asked whether he would mind us staying overnight there, he seemed concerned, and explained, “I don’t mind if you stay here, but please be very very careful. A couple of weeks ago, those crocodiles,” he said, raising his hand to point across the bank at some things in the water hitherto unnoticed,” they are very bad. They attacked and killed two people here. I find them, and it was terrible. One man, he no have face….”

We packed our stuff and left. We didn’t waste a lot of time about it either.

Apparently, we had been swimming in crocodile infested waters, with no idea of the danger we were in.

It’s good to be smart. It’s better to be lucky. We were lucky.

Undeterred, our trek south continues……