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Chasin’ Waterfalls

You’re in for a special treat today, kids, because this post was written by both Erin AND Katie.  They both loved this particular Costa Rican adventure SO much, that they couldn’t agree who would get to write the post.  So they opted for the third-person introduction, while the blue font that follows was written by Erin and the green font was written by Katie.  Look out, TLC!  We’re chasing some waterfalls, whether you like it or not.

Now that we’re done making forts with our luggage and have finally put them away, let us commence, as promised, with the juicy deets (the kids are still saying that, right?) of our last week in Costa Rica.

So, last Monday we spent five hours navigating an assortment of buses west to stay overnight in La Fortuna, a quaint town with clean streets, high-end restaurants, unique arts and crafts shops and jacked-up tourist prices tucked cozily in the looming shadow of Arenal Volcano.  La Fortuna’s cooler climate, lush tropical vegetation, and proximity to a large number of waterfalls, whitewater rapids and the aforementioned volcano have made it a well-established hotspot for tourists seeking tales of daring outdoor adventure to take home with them.

Which is precisely why we were there.  On the enthusiastic recommendation of Aaron and Becs, our friends, hosts, tour guides and all-around upstanding citizens (ok, they were our bosses, too, but that didn’t influence the description, promise), we’d come here determined to try our luck at waterfall rappelling.

Waterfall rappelling is exactly what it sounds like, and despite the astounding array of travel company reps pitching their packages (ahem, tour packages) to us along the sidewalk, apparently there are only two companies that offer this unique experience in La Fortuna.  But we’ll get to that in a minute.  Stick with me here, people.

So we arrived in La Fortuna in the early afternoon, checked into Gringo Pete’s, a clean, charming and ridonkulously cheap (hello, $4!) hostel recommended by a backpacking Canadian couple we met, and then proceeded to semi-stalk, on the bus ride there.  After dropping our bags off, we spent the rest of the day walking around and window-shopping before making our way to the Lava Lounge to talk with the restaurant’s California-bred owner, Scott, over a couple of industrial-strength piña coladas.  Aaron and Becs had met Scott a few years ago when they were in town for their first rappelling experience, and had asked us to stop by and drop off some hot sauce to him.

Fortunately for us, Scott happened to be good friends with Cynthia, the lovely owner of Pure Trek, one of the two companies that offered rappelling in the area.  So when we mentioned to Scott our plans to go rappelling the next morning with her slightly cheaper competitor,  he phoned Cynthia on the spot and she proceeded to make us a counter-offer we couldn’t refuse.  So Pure Trek it was!

[Editor’s Note: Yes, I admit that, at the time, it was all about the Benjamins.  However, having done my post-trip research since then, I now see that our reasons for choosing Pure Trek should have been:

(a) their commitment to safety.  Their slightly higher price tag covers the cost of regular equipment change-outs and safety upgrades; and

(b) the fact that their belaying technique provides customers a more authentic rappelling experience than the standard zipline style used by most other rappelling companies.

Thus, even though we ended up choosing wisely, it was for incredibly unwise financial reasons.  So don’t be stupid like us and try to scrimp on this once-in-a-lifetime experience, mmkay?]

Next morning arrived right on time, and the bus came to whisk us off on our adventure, which started with a 20-minute drive out of town and then a 15-minute putter up a steep and winding dirt road in an off-road Jeep.

The view from the dirt road.  I could live there.

This being the rainy off-season, our group was small and intimate, consisting of only three other American tourists and five Pure Trek employees.  Our guides were Ticos who spoke English very well and exuded an air of confidence and outdoor prowess befitting their Teva sandals; if they had no idea what they were doing, they at least put on a really good show otherwise.  And it didn’t hurt that every single one of them was cheek-pinchingly adorable.

At the top of the hill, we stopped at a small outpost station where we proceeded to trade in whatever remaining cool points we had for ginormous helmets and underwear made of seatbelts.

Safety first.  Fashion, an extremely distant second.

From there, we locked our valuables in the truck and descended down a rocky yet well-maintained trail into what felt like the beating heart of the jungle.  Even though it was only a five-minute walk, it truly felt like we were the first explorers ever to set foot there—everywhere you looked were palm leaves the size of Volkswagens and thick, tangled vines in a thousand variations of green competing ruthlessly for the sun.

In fact, we were in such awe of our primal surroundings that we almost forgot what why we were there in the first place.  And that little nugget of awareness came back to us just about the time we approached the edge of the 175-foot waterfall.

Gulp.

While the rest of the staff efficiently went about ensuring all the safety measures and belays were in place, our main guide briefed us on how to properly hold the ropes and position our feet so as to preserve our knees and faces in case we wanted to use them at a later date.

And then the time came for us to demonstrate our listening comprehension skills.

GULP.

Despite the abundance of safety ropes snugly attached to you, it’s still a somewhat terrifying feeling to take that first backward step off the edge of the platform and let yourself dangle in midair, contemplating the 175 feet of nothing standing between the bottoms of your sneakers and the ground.

But just as quickly as that fluttery-stomach feeling came, it went, and the experience was no longer awesomely terrifying but just awesome.  While that first waterfall was by far the tallest, each of the three subsequent ones we rappelled down presented different terrain challenges to keep you entertained, as well as new opportunities for our playful guides to keep themselves entertained by dunking us in frothing 60-degree water.  The little scamps.

What’s that?  You want me to hold you right in the middle of the fall while my friend takes pictures of you gulping down mouthfuls of riverwater like a large-mouth bass?

What’s that?  You want me to hold you right there while your face takes a tsunami-force shower?

By the end of the morning, our little group had pretty much gotten the hang of rappelling and needed the belayers below to keep us from smashing ourselves against the rock wall only a few times.

Soaking wet and a little tired (in a really, really good way) from navigating jungle canyons spider-man style, we thought our Pure Trek experience was over.  But our guides piled us into the vehicle and trucked us back down the mountain to the Pure Trek oasis.  It was really a resort-like compound, but I call it an oasis  with its cozy lodge, open-air restaurant, and the most beautiful restroom we’d seen in Costa Rica.

Erin and I were thrilled to take a nice, hot shower in the spa-like facility, complete with towels, shampoo, conditioner, and even body lotion.

Pure Trek Bathroom

Pure Trek Restroom

That’s it.  I’m moving in.

We felt invigorated and refreshed after our showers, but we also felt something else…  HUNGRY.

Apparently physical exercise does that to people.  Who knew?

We walked through the lush garden to the open-air dining area where Pure Trek’s chefs had an authentic Tico lunch waiting for us.

Pure Trek Dining

A hot plate of rice with chicken and black beans and a wonderful salad (sorry, no picture – did I mention we were hungry?) was brought to our table.  We were able to relax with a glass of fresh pineapple juice and watch a slideshow of the professional photos taken of our rappelling adventure on a monitor in the corner.

After our completely satisfying lunch, we were escorted back through the garden to the main lodge, where hot Costa Rican coffee awaited us.

The space was incredibly inviting and relaxing.  We were waiting for our transportation back to our hostel in town (provided by Pure Trek), but it hardly felt like waiting – we didn’t want to leave!

This experience truly was one of the most outstanding highlights of our trip.  Thanks to Aaron and Becs for telling us about it, Scott at Lava Lounge for setting us straight on where we should go, and Cynthia and the guides from Pure Trek for showing us a completely amazing time.

It’s gonna be hard to top this one…

Costa Rica Critter #4

As Erin mentioned yesterday, today’s critter is just a little preview of a story to come later in the week…

But we have a LOT of pictures of them, so I figured we’d use a few more here…

So get ready to get up-close and personal with MONKEYS!

Mi Taco Es Su Taco

*Please forgive the unforgivably dark/blurry photos in this post and any of my posts hereafter.  By this point in the trip I had busted my favorite low-light camera lens (something I’m not yet ready to talk about) and I was making do with what I had.

On one of our last days in Costa Rica, our friend Becs showed us one hell of a time.  There was a crazy monkey chase (more to come, I promise), pool-crashing at the beach (more to come, I promise), and the most wonderfully orgasmic tacos I’ve ever had the pleasure of devouring.

That’s what I’m going to tell you about now (in case the title of this post led you to think otherwise – again, get your minds out of the gutter).

I can tell you from experience that after a long morning of horsing around with monkeys and a long afternoon of frolicking in both the Pacific ocean and a guest-only hotel pool (a hotel of which we were definitely not guests), there is nothing – I repeat nothing – more satisfying than a tall glass of Costa Rican beer and the best tacos I’ve ever had in my life.

At first I thought Becs was mistaken when she pulled off the main road onto a rocky dirt driveway overgrown with weeds and shrubbery.  Surely the nondescript, unlit home in front of us was not a restaurant.  Was it?

But as we approached, I saw the understated sign next to the front door:

Tacos.

‘Nuff said, apparently.

Tacos in Liberia, Guanacaste, Costa Rica

I’d be lying if the place didn’t make me conjure up thoughts of some crazy old guy in the back butchering up human flesh to serve with tortillas and Lizano al a Sweeny Todd.  (My first “real” date took me to see that play, by the way.  Remind me to tell you about that gem some other time.)

Hey, I have an active imagination.

But the inside was cozy, and I settled down when the owner brought me my cerveza and I saw that at least, if he was going to butcher us and serve us to the other customers (of which there were exactly none), he was at least willing to let us have a drink first.

Imperial with Ice

Yes, that’s a chunk of ice in the glass.  It took us 2 months to get used to it, but non-touristy bars/restaurants in Costa Rica serve their beers with a glass of ice.  It’s actually pretty nice when it’s hot and humid out and the beer bottle isn’t exactly cold.

In a corner of the room there was a large chalk board with the menu (and surprisingly steep prices), along with a gas, flat-topped griddle and a wire shelf hanging from the ceiling.

The first thing we ordered was queso con chorizo, which is exactly what it sounds like – a bowl of delicious melted cheese with bits of chopped up chorizo.  The restaurant’s owner (sorry, forgot his name!), who is originally from Mexico, took several chunks of wonderful white cheese and melted it in an iron bowl over a charcoal grill.

Melting queso on a charcoal grill

We waited as patiently as 3 hungry women who’d been at the beach all afternoon could possibly wait.

Then he threw in the chorizo that he’d cooked on the flat-top, and the result was a greasy, gooey, stringy bowl of deliciousness that really can’t be properly described with words.  We spooned it over grill-warmed tortillas and then we died.

Queso con chorizo

Ask me if I care that this likely turned my arteries into sluggish, gummed-up muck.  ‘Cause I don’t.

Meanwhile, the Taco Guru was working his magic back on the flat-top.  While he’d been making our queso appetizer, he’d put all of the ingredients for our tacos on the hanging wire shelf.  We’d ordered one plate with beef, onions and cheese, and another plate with chorizo, cheese and grilled pineapple.  (Turns out we really didn’t need 2 plates – each plate comes a huge stack of tortillas, and one plate would’ve been more than enough for the 3 of us.)

After the meat was cooked, he piled everything on the plates and brought them to the table.

Beef, onion and cheese tacos

Beef, onions and cheese.

Chorizo, cheese and pineapple tacos

Chorizo, cheese and pineapple.

All I can say is these tacos were ah-maz-ing.

Best Tacos Ever

He served them with shredded cabbage, homemade guacamole and a spicy salsa.

We ate them and died again.

The end.

Erin, Taco Guy, and Katie

Thanks for the laughs, the cries and the jiggly thighs, Taco Guy.  We’ll remember you fondly.

Out-of-the-Box Shock

I’ve been home (in my house) for approximately 2 hours.  I’ve been home (in the U.S.) for approximately 13 hours.  And I think it’s safe to say that while I’m quickly becoming readjusted (I experienced a minor bout of panic when I went to get a glass of water and couldn’t remember in which cabinet the glasses were actually located), I’ve definitely been experiencing a bit of culture shock.

But I’m hesitant to call it culture shock because it has become undeniably apparent to me that roadside America really lacks… culture.  If you define culture as “the characteristic features of everyday existence shared by people in a place or time,” it really is more difficult to pinpoint distinguishing characteristics than the lack of distinguishing characteristics.  We like chain hotels.  We like chain restaurants.  We like chain stores.  So is that our culture?

For example, Justin and I stayed in a roadside motel last night since my flight came in at 9:00 p.m. and we still had a 6-7 hour drive to get home.  I couldn’t tell you which motel we stayed in because really, they’re all the same.

We hit the road this morning and I may have passed out periodically from jet lag, Motel Bed Syndrome (MBS – it’s no laughing matter), and a general unwillingness to accept the fact that  I have to start facing responsibilities once again, and I was confused every time I awoke because it never seemed like we’d gotten anywhere. Same stores, same restaurants, same people.

Toto, I don’t think we’re in… wait, what town are we in again??

So the term culture shock just doesn’t seem to cut it.  It was the lack of culture that shocked me.  Maybe I should call it redundancy shock.  No, doesn’t have the same ring.  Commercialism shock?  That could really apply in many countries.  How about out-of-the-box shock?  You know, because nearly every roadside town looks like it was put together from the same ready-to-assemble boxed set.

If I need to buy a new leather belt in one of these towns, I know I can likely find a Kohl’s, Target, or JC Penny that will carry something in my price-range that will fit my needs.  Everyone can.  And everyone will have very similar belts.  In a place like Bagaces, it would’ve been a much bigger hassle to get a new belt.  I would’ve had to inquire if there was a “belt guy” somewhere in town, describe to him what I needed, and wait for him to make it.  But no one would’ve had the same belt.  It would’ve been MY belt.

Street in Bagaces.

Does that really matter?  Probably not.  But it’s interesting, nonetheless.

In all fairness, I’ve been around this country enough to know that its different metropolitan areas have unique and interesting qualities (architecture, food, dialect, etc.) that set them apart from each other, but you have to admit – if you take away any regional vegetation or notable terrain, you could spin yourself around like a top and topple over into nearly any part of rural or suburban America and seriously have no freakin’ clue where you landed.

But at least you’ll be able to buy yourself a thin burger patty and an iced latte.

Oh, and apparently it’s autumn now.  When did that happen??

 

We Don’t Do Autographs.

While Erin and I are out gallavanting around Costa Rica trying to squeeze in at least a couple of touristy-type adventures during our last couple of days here – mastering the art of maneuvering public transportation, rappelling down waterfalls, petting monkeys (HEY!  I said petting monkeys, not petting the monkey – get your mind out of the gutter), I want you to take a moment to recognize that we are now officially famous in Costa Rica.

That’s right.  You heard me.

FAMOUS.

With a capital F.  And AMOUS.

Remember Erin’s little write-up about our trip to a Tex-Mex joint in a town called Tilaran?  Well, she sent the link to Jason, the restaurant’s owner, and he liked the post so much that he sent it on to… wait for it… The Tico Times!

That’s right – a link to our blog has now been officially noted in a Costa Rica publication.  Considering we’ve never been mentioned in a U.S. publication, I’m going to take this as a sign that we need to move here permanently.

Just sayin’.

And okay, maybe a few of the journalistic facts were slightly misrepresented in The Link’s accompanying article (we traveled from Bagaces, not La Fortuna, and clearly we’re NOT tourists since – duh – we live here… okay at least for 2 more days), we’re incredibly excited about the shout-out, nonetheless.  And I suppose we can’t give them too much crap considering Erin used the old restaurant name in her post – a fact the Tico Times author is only too quick to mention.  In her defense the restaurant’s website still goes by the old name.

And while the insanely inaccurate article managed to stimulate what I’m estimating to be approximately zero blog hits, it’s really the publication that counts.

Because really – what’s National Geographic compared to the Tico Times??

And wait… maybe it’s pet the kitty, not pet the monkey.  I was converting the euphemism to a Costa Rican animal.  Does that mean I’m now fluent in Spanish?

Karaoke vs. Popped Collars: A Cultural Debate

Here’s a little Saturday morning SAT logic problem for all you brainiacs out there:

Costa Rica : Karioke :: America : _________

A. Popped collars

B. Justin Bieber

C. Bicycle shorts worn by anyone not presently competing in the Tour de France.

D. Metrosexuality

E. The Deep-Fried Twinkie

Here’s a hint:  It’s a trick question.

The answer is F: All of the above.  They are all awful, disturbingly rampant phenomena in the U.S. from which there is literally no possible escape.  Just as karioke is in Costa Rica.

Every weekend, all the hardworking Ticos and Ticas of Bagaces flood the five bars in our small town to take turns belting out played-out 80’s ballads and mournful Spanish songs about lost loves and painful memories and, for some inexplicable reason, cats.

Yeah, we couldn’t figure that one out, either.

And these people don’t just sing.  They sing.  They shut their eyes tightly, clutch the microphone and sway their hips.  They pump their fists and lean into the high notes like they are possessed by the vengeful ghost of Celine Dion.

My bad, Celine.  I hadn’t seen you since the early 90s, so I just assumed you were dead.

They have absolutely zero qualms about publicly displaying a level of raw, unharnessed emotion that most Americans would be embarrassed to show in the privacy of their own closets.

And while it’s not always pretty—okay, 95% of the time it sounds like this:

–even then, Costa Rica’s love affair with karioke is still far less offensive than any of the above-mentioned phenomena we’re forced to bear helpless, silently screaming witness to in America.

Allow me to elaborate:

… I rest my case.

And you can’t really blame the Ticos because it’s not like they’re out blowing off a week’s worth of steam by crushing 15 beers, getting into violent fisticuffs with traffic signs and puking in the backs of cop cars.

They’re just happy to be here, peacefully doin’ their thang.

And if their thang is belting out an off-key rendition of “Total Eclipse of the Heart” to a crowd of strangers every Friday and Saturday night, so be it.

Just pass me a beer and the mike.

Nothing Says “I Care” Like a Kitty Cat Doormat

Last weekend our friend Karla took Erin and me to the beach.  Two beaches, to be exact – Playa del Coco and Playa Hermosa.

As with most car trips, I found the time on the road to be half the fun.

I love taking photos from a moving vehicle.

Costa Rica Countryside

When we got there, we saw that Coco is an adorable little beach community absolutely packed with souvenir shops.

Playa Coco

We arrived with the intention of buying a couple small gifts for friends and family – though, I never understood why anyone would really want a token from somewhere they’ve never been.  But it’s apparently a “nice thing to do” so we set out to do it.

Honestly, we did.

But it turns out there was a slight problem with the souvenir selection at Coco Beach.

At first glance it seemed there were plenty of cute dangly earrings from which to choose.  The problem?  They were the same in every shop, which indicated they were probably imported from Nicaragua.

And we all know it’s impossible to pick out sunglasses for other people.

Sunglasses Galore

(Though it turns out Erin is quite talented at picking them out for me.)

Crazy Big Sunglasses

And once we ruled out earrings, t-shirts and sunglasses, we were really at a loss.  The rest of the souvenirs at Coco Beach are, it turns out, heinously hideous at worse and insanely tacky at best.

What do you think, mom?  Didn’t you just tell me you were looking for a giant rooster statue?

Make your guests feel welcome by setting him on your front step in lieu of a boring old welcome mat.

Or if you’re looking for something a little more travel-friendly, there’s always the one that hasn’t quite finished hatching.

Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall…

And if poultry isn’t your taste, there’s always naked statues.

Naked Limbless Statues

My, what nice abs you have.

And not-so-naked statues.

Weed People

Yeah mon.

And  of course, the copulating couples.

And now for position #179…

My, were there copulating couples.

Apparently they couldn’t be bothered to remove their skirts.

I can’t help but be impressed with their balancing skills.

If you want something a little more National Geographic, you could always go with one of these:

She does NOT look like she’s having a good time.

Don’t worry – I can help you find a bra with the right support and comfort to perk those babies back up.

(Yeah, because we all know THAT’S realistic.)

Not into people or poultry?  No worries, they have plenty of other animals, too.

OMG, I’ve been LOOKING for a red-vested monkey!

I already have this doormat.  In tabby.

I think this monkey might be stoned.

And the art… well the art is just exquisite.  I didn’t find anything to add to my “collection,” but I definitely enjoyed looking.

Ladies, doesn’t this look like something you had hanging in your room in the 80’s?  Minus the boobies, of course…

And this guy totally would’ve been going home with me in the 90’s.

Okay, now here is where you may want to turn away.

I know, I know.  I didn’t warn you before the creepy half-hatched rooster egg or the blowjob pipe.  That’s because those things were small potatoes compared to this.

Really.

The following image is – by far – one of the most disturbing things I’ve ever seen.

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So don’t scroll any further if you don’t want to have nightmares.

…

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I mean it!

…

…

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Last warning…

…

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…

Okay here goes:

What is it??!!

I’m sorry I didn’t get a closer shot, but I was worried it would jump out of the frame and peck off my face.

What would possess someone to paint something like this?

Is this how the artist views women?

Maybe it’s a portrait of his ex wife…

Can you imagine actually buying this thing?  Oh yes… that would look just PERFECT on the living room mantel.  Or better yet, above the bed!  You know, because there’s nothing like a large-breasted naked veiny chicken to put me in the mood.

I will never look at a chicken the same way again.

The things we did like were pretty pricey and would’ve cost even more to ship home.

Like this funky mirror:

Or these pretty chimes:

Or this ornately carved chair, complete with butt print:

Needless to say, we didn’t end up buying anything.  Oh well, I guess my photos will be souvenir enough.  Because friends and family love looking at my vacation pictures, right?

Right??

After exploring the cavernous shops at Coco, we drove on to Hermosa to spend a relaxing afternoon on the beach.

The weather was perfect.

Exactly what we needed.

We even made a friend.

Here’s to another day in paradise.

Costa Rica Critter #3

Okay, remember this little incident?

We were only on our first or second day at work when we realized it was perfectly normal for someone to show up at the office with a giant freakin’ SNAKE in tow.

This is why it came as no particular surprise when Derby showed up the other day with something quite interesting in his hand.

Costa Rica Scorpion

Something any normal person would not want to carry in his BARE-ASS hand.

Big-ass Scorpion

That’s right, my friends.  It’s a scorpion.

It’s a live scorpion.

And no, I did not ask him to flip it over so I could get a better shot.


Costa Rica Critter #2

Look, dude.  I have something to tell you.

You’re not gonna like it, but it needs to be said.

You know that whole… camouflage thing you have going?

Yeah… it’s not really working for you.

Hey – don’t get offended.  I’m just trying to be honest with you.  If I can’t be honest about this, then what can I be honest about?

You know, you always do this.  I say something just the least bit critical and you get all defensive.  Did you ever stop to think that just maybe I want what’s best for you?  For us?

Ok, fine.  Just walk away.  It’s what you do best.

Hey… where’d you go?

Not cool, dude.  Not cool.

A Most Unexpected Visitor

A few nights ago, Erin and I were having a rare, quiet evening indoors.  I had just cooked us a dinner of thick quesadillas with sautéed onions, mushrooms, and some type of orange cheese that melted into a beautiful, gooey, stringy mess.  Chased with a couple of our favorite Nicaraguan beers, it was decidedly more successful than our attempt at rice ‘n beans.

It hadn’t even started to congeal in our arteries when we heard a knock at the door.

Who could that be? We thought.

We weren’t expecting any company, and the couple of miles on the dirt road that carries you from town to our place of residence may as well be a million to those of our (mostly car-less) friends who dare navigate the labyrinth of potholes in the pitch black of night.

Not to mention the fact that we didn’t hear anyone approach, and our windows were wide open.  We’re in Costa Rica and we have no a/c.  Our windows are always open.

Erin crept to the door and I followed close behind.  You know, to watch her back.  Then she opened the door to a most unexpected visitor, indeed.

Hey, I heard you girls are new in town.  I thought maybe I could take you out, buy you a few flies, you know… rrrrrribbit…. see where things go.

Then maybe we could head back to my place and take a dip in the pond.

…

Rrrrrribbit.

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No?

…

Well, it was worth a shot.

Stupid gringas.