September 25, 1995
Down & Out in Costa Rica
I’ve always believed there were only two dimensions to being in a country: working, or travelling through. Now, besides the realms of endless other possibilities, I am identifying a third: being ill. Unlike the Traveller, circumstances force you upon places you might otherwise have bypassed, or not even considered; upon people, whether locals, ex-pats or tourists in ways that could easily have been avoided otherwise. I’m the one with a death-mask in any café across this country; I’m the one politely trying not to faint whilst some Costa Rican is pouring out his life story. And the cruellest irony, of course, is that despite all these bizarre experiences - the places I’ve been, the people I’ve met - these past few days will only ever be remembered as the worst, not to say most disastrous part of this holiday. This is my fourth day, and my third hotel in Costa Rica; it has taken me all this time to cover the one-and-a-half hour journey from the capital to this place, Albergue de Montaña Tapantí at KM 62. My ultimate destination is but a half hour walk from here, but for now I’m bedridden, unable even to raise my head. Sniff.
This hotel is the sort of place I’m talking about. On my scrappy little map, it is represented by a little box, presumably indicative of having missed my stop. I missed my stop - never even saw it, but what I did see was an enormous - wall, spanning the entire bend of the road, with “Hotel Tapantí” engraved on it in huge letters. For me, it was just The Meeting Point. For others, well, let’s see what Lonely Planet has to say... “This small highland hotel is the most comfortable place to stay on the Interamericana... There is a garden and some remnants of high altitude cloudforest - a good spot for some roadside birding...” Prices comparable to those of, in all its pink-and-grey stucco glory, the Hotel Presidente in the capital. I’m not complaining, though - I got a special deal. Unfortunately, it wasn’t until well after dark that I finally accepted that I was to be stranded here for the night, if not indefinitely; it’s started to make me think I wouldn’t mind being stuck here for something like that length of time...
I spent the evening chatting with an Antonio Banderas-lookalike (honestly!) and playing with the smallest kitten I’ve seen, which had no concept whatsoever of gravity, mortality, or the fleas she was generously scattering across the room. When I realised I was hungry, the manager - well, I must call him Armand, out of deference to Anne Rice - grinned, and ran off to the kitchen calling, “I’ll be back very soon, I cook very quickly, I’m a very good cook!” He then continued to stand over me for at least the first part of my dinner, asking plaintively if I liked the spaghetti. I was the only guest.
What a far cry from the café where I’d been staying in Santo Domingo, a pseudo-suburb of San Jose! Upon awakening in San Jose, Robert, the American I’d met on the plane, informed me I was in fact staying in a whorehouse and had arranged for me to stay at a restaurant/hotel owned by some of his friends. Entering it was like re-entering the first world: it was decorated exclusively in black and white marbled tiles, and seemed to be a magnet for more ex-pats and tourists than actual locals. On the first day I met the man responsible for the film “Medicine Man”. He’s also directed a part of the film “Congo”, although you won’t see his name in the credits. I also met a man from Brighton who came out here seven years ago for the butterflies, and still had no intention of returning; old friends such as Robert seemed to be forever dropping by. I spent most of my time with the restaurant staff, whose English was only marginally less restricted than my Spanish; after an utterly draining evening, I could go to bed feeling we’d finally managed to get ourselves understood, or at least where it really mattered.
What does “Costa Rica” make you think of? Have you already heard of it, have you already been here, do you want to come here but - ... what? This is something I was discussing with Armand last night. You can come here for the ecological diversity - from the Caribbean lowlands to this cloudforest I’m in, at 8,800 feet, to some of the most beautiful beaches in Central America, to the comparative barrenness of Guanacaste in the north, deforested to make way for grazing pastures. The locals blame McDonalds; the guide book simply refers to fast food chains in general. You can come because it’s the safest, and certainly the most stable country in Central America, and also the only country in the world without its own army. You can come because you want to participate in one of the conservation projects here, as I’m supposedly doing. You can come because it’s on the route between Nicaragua and Panamá... you can simply come. Except - nothing.
Two years ago, tourism reached such a level that a large amount of hotels were opened simply to deal with numbers. Now, tourism appears to be on a decline, and 150 hotels and restaurants are up for sale. It is not helped by the costs of this country either - as a reaction to the surge in tourism, the entrance fees for the country’s 58 national parks were raised significantly, thus excluding a number of tourists from this country’s major attraction. Armand was perplexed; perhaps he was just too optimistic for his country? Surely, he felt, people would want to come to Costa Rica anyway, regardless of their reason, regardless of even having a reason.
If it wasn’t for people like him, my view of this country would be very very limited. Hotel rooms, yes; scenery, no. Not exactly true: even on the way from San Jose through its suburbs, I was - what word is there I can use? - overwhelmed by the sheer lushness of this country. Even the capital is permeated by it: in parks, on pavements, behind barbed wire fences. You step between buildings and suddenly you step millions of years back in time.
Up here, the vegetation comes with a twist: The Cloud. The latest novelty.
You have to understand that yesterday was the first day I felt well enough to walk, so ended up proving it by walking back not quite an hour the distance it had taken the bus to finally stop and let me off. I was exhausted, I was fuming, I was fed up - an outstanding success this trip has not been - and carrying bags, guitar, more bags than I’d imagined. (Two.) Sometimes I’d be walking along a clear patch of road, only to look back and see the road behind me shrouded in white. At other times, I’d see some mist before me, anticipate walking into it, only to discover it had since sidestepped me and was now tumbling down the mountain. And then - at the foot of Hotel Tapantí. I sat there in a little heap, too worn out to move, to respond to the lorry drivers who honked as they passed every few minutes, perhaps even laughing. I took a long long look at the land around me, trying to find some justification for this murderous journey I was making. I looked at a tree. I wasn’t impressed. I looked at a patch of mist. It moved. As I watched, it crossed the road and came towards me; at the same time, I could see others parading up and down the road. The cloud came closer and closer. All at once, the countryside around me vanished and was transformed from sad and rainy to - elusive. Mysterious. Something hoped for, not quite reached. The primary - virgin - untouched rainforests I’d been promised. With new hope, I picked up my bags and continued up into the hotel.
In fact, I was thinking of a Stephen King story, The Mist. Help me, I was thinking, I don’t want to die this way.
(Commissioned in September 1995)
Posted by chantal at September 25, 1995 03:17 PM