Showing posts with label San Jose. Show all posts
Showing posts with label San Jose. Show all posts

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

Summer Travels Part 3: The Rich Coast

Saying hi to mom
Drowsy and discombobulated, I awoke in an air conditioned hotel room.

Where was I again?

Then the previous day’s travel hell entered my mind and I remembered—Costa Rica.

Sleeping in the same room were my two brothers; my parents slept in the next room over. With my brothers still asleep, I headed to the bathroom to take a shower. Turning on the light, I was immediately taken aback by its niceness—this was certainly no grungy hostel bathroom.

By the time I was done with the bathroom, my brothers were stirring and I borrowed some of their clothes, as mine were conveniently lost somewhere back at the Bogotá airport.

A while later, my parents came to our room and the whole family reunited for the first time since my January departure.

At the Sarapiqui hotel
After a posh breakfast, a van came to take us to our first destination; Sarapiquí. We left San José and over the next few hours, passed through the beautiful Costa Rican countryside. At one point we stopped at small tourist tienda, which was surrounded by a band of lizards. Most of the lizards just stood there, motionless, although some were apparently in the middle of mating season.

Finally, we arrived at our rural hotel, deep in the heart of the Sarapiquí jungle. The hotel consisted of a main lodge with several surrounding “huts” containing the bedrooms. Once we settled in, we went to the pool area to have a few drinks.

When I went to the bar to order a beer, the bartender tried to speak to me in broken English and I responded in Spanish. She looked at me with pleased amazement.

A gringo speaking Spanish… was it even possible?

Canopy
One of the things I would learn about Costa Rica is that its economy is completely dependent on foreign (mostly eco) tourism and as such, everyone speaks English, or at least tries to. But I was in Latin America and I wanted to speak Spanish, so I stubbornly refused to let people speak to me in my native tongue.

Later that day, a van came to take us down the road to spend a few hours doing canopy, or zip-lining. Although I had done canopy early that year in Manizales, this canopy course was way larger, having sixteen zip-lines as opposed to Manizales’ one. The zip-lines passed over rivers and passed tall jungle trees—it felt like being on the Forest Moon of Endor.

Didn’t see any Ewoks, though.

The rapids
The next day we took to the rapids, doing some pretty hardcore river rafting and battled aggressive alligators and man-eating piranhas as we flowed down the current.

…okay maybe that was a slight exaggeration. But we did get to eat watermelon.

When we got back to the hotel, I was delighted to hear that my long-lost luggage had finally arrived along with my clean clothes. No more bumming clothes off my brothers for me.

Done with Sarapiqí, we headed west to the Arenal Volcano, where we stayed at a nice hotel that had pool with a bar in it.

I will repeat that; a pool with a bar in it.

God is indeed great.

ATVing
On our first day in Arenal, we went on an ATV tour. Back in California, my family owns ATVs and I have been driving them longer than I have been driving cars. Every summer, we take them out on the trails in the Lake Tahoe National Forrest, roaming freely wherever the paths may lead. Although it was slightly annoying to be treated like an inept tourist and having to follow a guide, we still got to drive through some breathtaking countryside. I waved at the locals as we passed.

About an hour into the ride, we stopped at a tourist-looking area and dismounted the ATVs. Crossing a bridge, we passed through a forest of gift shops and arrived at a platform overlooking a bowl-shaped valley with a powerful waterfall… falling at the valley’s opposite edge.

The rope swing
Continuing on the trail, we eventually came to another stop—a river that created a small swimming lagoon. By this point, I was covered with dust and dirt from riding at the back of the pack and I welcomed a chance to get fresh.

Heading down a rocky embankment, we soon arrived at the swimming hole, which was marked with a small waterfalls created by the river and a rope swing. Although I wasn’t sure if the rope would hold the weight of a tall gringo, I said to hell with it and swung away, nearly belly flopping into the lukewarm water below. My dad and brothers followed suit while my mom gave us moral support from the embankment.

Hanging out with the family
That night, the whole family hung out in the sports bar attached to the hotel. It was a bona fide gringotopia, complete with banners from American sports teams and a pool table. Although the bar tender was kind of a sourpuss, we had a good time hanging out.

The following day, we went on a nature hike next to the Arenal volcano. The guide told us some pretty terrifying stories about people who had died hiking near Arenal—a very active volcano. Except rather than spitting up molten hot magma, the volcano shot car-sized balls of superheated volcanic rock. In other words; a wonderful way to die.

And by wonderful, I mean excruciatingly painful.

Regardless, the jungle near the volcano was lush and beautiful. Although the area had been completely destroyed during Arenal’s last major eruption, in only a few decades the jungle had made an impressive comeback; there was a wide array of plant and animal life. At one point, the guide threw ants at a spider web so that we could watch a Shelob-sized spider devour its prey.

In front of the Arenal Volcano
After the hike, we headed to a hot springs resort to enjoy the thermal waters. The springs were located at a fancy hotel that made the place we were staying at look like a Motel 6. We had a good time relaxing in the waters and I was particularly delighted when we stumbled across a water slide. Good times.

Most of the next day was spent driving to the distant coastal town of Manuel Antonio. Along the way, we stopped at a cloud forest for yet another nature hike. We looked at trees and ants and hummingbirds then continued on our merry way.

The next day—our last full day in Costa Rica—we went on another hike, this time near the coast. Although most of us were sick of walking around humid forests and looking at the same wildlife, this time we got to see some cool animals, including sloths, toucans and spider monkeys. The path passed by the ocean and we spent some time dunking in the ocean.

Spider monkeys on da roof!
Later that day, we headed back to San José and our final hotel. Tomorrow, my family would be heading back to California and I, back to Bogotá.

The following morning when we arrived at the airport, I wondered if the aviation gods had changed their minds and would finally bestow their favor upon me.

As it turned out, they hadn’t.

After waiting in a long line to check in, the airline attendant told me that I had been kicked off my flight due to overbooking. He put me on a later flight—that would depart seven hours after my scheduled flight—and gave me a $150 USD voucher for a future flight and $14 to buy lunch in the airport.

Seriously, aviation gods… wtf.

After passing through security, I waited with my family at their gate and soon it was time for them to depart. Saying our goodbyes, I reassured them that the next five months would fly by and that I would be home before they knew it.

I watched them board and minutes later, the plane left the terminal and took off.

Waiting at the airport with my dad
Passing the next seven hours alone in the San José airport, I contemplated my return to Bogotá. The last three weeks had been incredible—the life of a backpacker is indeed a lot different than that of a foreign language teacher in Colombia.

But I still had work to do in Bogotá.

And so I went back.

Monday, July 18, 2011

Summer Travels Part 2.5: Travel Troubles

The defective cab looked a lot like this
Waking up early on a Saturday, I quietly gathered my things and slipped out of the hostel dorm room so as not to wake my anonymous roommates. After paying my bill, I asked the hostel receptionist if she could call me a taxi.

“Oh, we can’t do that,” she said.

“Why,” I said.

“I don’t know,” she replied.

Slightly irritated, I threw on my travel pack, now weighed down with alpaca attire, and headed out to try my luck hailing a cab on the streets. Loitering on a busy street corner, I attempted to hail the passing taxis, but to no avail.

Like a lost duckling, I wandered further down the street and came across a doorman for a nice-looking hotel.

“Buenos días,” I greeted him with a smile, “Me puedes llamar un taxi?”

“Claro,” he said, turning to look down the street. He held out his hand and a vacant taxi miraculously appeared, pulling to the curb.

“Él es mi amigo,” the doorman assured me.

I nodded and said, “Mil gracias, Señor.”

I threw my bag in the back and got in. Looking at my watch, I was pleased to see that it read 8 a.m. My flight was at 11 a.m., so I should get to the airport with plenty of time to spare.

Over the next ten minutes, the taxi navigated the Lima maze, speeding ever closer towards the airport. Like most taxi rides in Latin America, it was faster and more reckless than the average gringo was comfortable with, but after seven months in the region, I was used to it.

Suddenly, my head whipped forward when the driver slammed on the breaks and nearly rear-ended a bus, killing the engine. When the driver repeatedly failed to restart the engine, he got out and popped the hood. After a few minutes of messing around with the engine, he got back in the car and once again failed to restart the car.

The driver got out and pushed the dead car to the side of the road. I debated whether I should get out and help the guy, stay where I was or get out and try to find another, less broken taxi to take. I decided to stay where I was and give the driver another couple of minutes to get the vehicle running.

Jorge Chavez Airport, Lima
Again, the driver popped the hood, doing God knows what to the engine. Much to my delight, this time when he turned the ignition, the engine roared to life.

With the same reckless abandon as before, the driver floored the accelerator and we were off. Twenty minutes went by and I knew we had to be nearly there. Praying to the automotive gods that the vehicle would make it the rest of the way, I cursed them when the engine died, yet again—this time in the middle of a busy thoroughfare where a speeding bus could kill us at any moment.

The driver got out to do his thing with the stubborn engine and after three failed attempts, finally managed to get it running. I glanced at my watch and winced; it was almost 9 a.m. and I had an international flight to catch.

I would be cutting it close.

Much to my gringo delight, the Jorge Chavez International Airport finally appeared and the taxi dropped me off at the international terminal.

Entering the terminal, I was horrified to see an enormous line running way passed the check-in area and nearly out the door. Getting in the back of the line, I feared I wouldn’t reach the front in time. As the line slowly inched forward, I happened to look up and noticed the flight departure screen.

Next to my flight number it read: demorado.

My flight was delayed.

Although I was at first relieved, it soon turned to worry when I realized that I couldn’t afford to have my flight delayed—I only had an hour and fifteen minutes to make the connection to Costa Rica in Bogotá.

By the time I had checked my bag and made it through security and customs, it was 10:30 a.m. With my flight now delayed, I headed over to a random gate to sit down and watch the flight information monitor.

Bogotá Airport International Terminals
After 11 a.m. came and went and the screen continued to read demorado, I grew more and more impatient. I figured that as long as the flight left by 11:45 a.m., I would still be able to make my connection in Bogotá; however, every passing minute made it more likely that I would be quite completely screwed.

Sure enough, noon came and there was still no change in my flight’s status. At 1:00 p.m., the monitor finally changed, telling me which gate my flight would depart from.

When I arrived at the departure gate and asked what had happened, they simply told me that the plane “had arrived late.” I told them that I would be missing a connection because of the delay and they told me to talk to their people in Bogotá to rectify the situation.

I sat down, bubbling with frustration, and another hour passed before the airline made the first call to board. We finally took off just after 2:00 p.m., three hours after we were supposed to.

A few hours later when we landed in Bogotá, I had missed my connection by nearly three hours. Exiting the plane and walking down a long corridor, I came to a crossroads: customs or connecting flight?

Although I wasn’t sure who exactly I needed to talk to, I decided it was best to stay in the departure area, so I passed under the connecting flight sign. Entering the international departure terminal, there didn’t appear to be anyone from the airline to talk to. Luckily, a helpful security guard directed me to a departure gate where there were people from the airline working.

I approached the desk and mustered every bit of my Spanish abilities to try to explain the situation and ask if they could put me on another flight to Costa Rica. The attendant called her supervisor and told me to wait for her to arrive. Since the airline people were distracted by a flight they had just begun boarding, I sat down to wait for the supervisor.

The luggage I lost
Thirty minutes later, the supervisor was nowhere to be found and I once again went up to talk to the airline attendant. With unmistakable annoyance, she told me to wait until they had finished boarding the flight and then she would help me.

I took a deep breath and nodded, figuring that getting mad wouldn’t get me what I wanted.

After what seemed like an eternity, they finally finished boarding the plane and I returned to the desk. I stood there for a moment like an idiot, waiting for her to acknowledge my existence. When she didn’t, I again told her what I wanted. She took my boarding pass, passport and luggage claim ticket and spent the next fifteen minutes pattering away at her keyboard. She printed out a new boarding pass for a later flight and handed it to me. When I asked her if my luggage would also make it on my new flight, she nodded in reassurance that it would.

With my travel troubles apparently resolved, I spent the next three hours killing time in the Bogotá airport. At 9:30 p.m., I finally got on the plane to Costa Rica.

The plane landed in San José, Costa Rica just after midnight, sixteen hours after I had left my hostel in Lima. Exhausted, I trudged through customs and made my way to baggage claim. I waited, chatting with a girl from New Zealand I had met on the plane, but twenty minutes passed without any luggage coming out.

At 12:30 a.m., the conveyor belt came to life and I watched intently for my bag to pop out. As the passengers began to filter out after claiming their luggage, soon only me and New Zealand girl remained.

Eventually, the conveyor belt turned off and a man from the airline came over to tell us that our luggage had been lost.

Finally arrived in Costa Rica!
At this point, my eyes should have turned green, my muscles exploding through my shirt as I mutated into the Incredible Hulk. But rather than breaking into a furious rage, I instead began grinning like an idiot.

Having already been damned by the automotive and aviation gods, it made perfect sense that the gods of baggage reclamation would also forsake me.

After filling out a lost luggage form, I left the airport with nothing but my small carry-on backpack filled with a few books and an alpaca scarf I’d purchased in Peru.

Just before 2:00 a.m., I finally arrived at the hotel where my family was staying.

Por freaking fin.