That morning, at breakfast, I made an appointment with Allan (tattoo person) for the next day. And then we left for THE MONTEVERDE CLOUD FOREST.
This place! You guys! This is one of the most diverse places on earth. I encourage you to take a moment to google it.
Have you? No? I encourage you again.
Good. So.
We were planning to take a bus up, but the bus wasn't running. One of our favorite (actually, the only favorite we mutually agreed on) hostel workers, whose name is Ro (Rrrrrrro. Ar oh. Eets very short.) -
Actually, a short pause. Let me give you some Ro.
Ro doesn't look Latin American. He's got sandy blonde hair and is, yeah, pretty tan. He is 57. He does not look 57. He's flamboyant and has ear gauges and wears punk stuff and has a something mullet haircut. He's very good at making you feel comfortable by teasing you mercilessly, if you know what I mean. We all know those people, right? Anyway, we love him. His running joke with me- because Chelsea is engaged, he wanted me to propose to him. Whenever I'd walk into the hostel, he'd tap his ring finger.
Where's my diamond? I want one so big I cannot lift my hand. When are you getting it?
And I'd make up some story about being mugged or a hawk stealing it and he'd pretend to cry.
Anyway. Ro drives a... Hm. A... Well. It's like a scooter with... How do I describe this? It has three wheels, it's covered like a rickshaw. With a roof. I... Picture a tiny, tiny red car with three wheels and a roof that appears to be made of plastic-coated sheep bladder and no doors. That's roughly it.
Ro doesn't have a driver's license, so he had to call to make sure no police were patrolling. Then, we were off.
There was an ever-present awareness of our own mortality as we slowly chugged over the rough, torn road, looking straight out the doorhole and into the green canyons. At one point we ran out of gas. Ro showed us some flowers we could eat. I think mustard. Do you guys know of people who do this in the US? Who can just drop flora/fauna knowledge bombs on you with no preamble? I don't. I love that about Costa Rica.
We made it to the top and gave Ro a hug (little did we know it was the last time we'd see him!), then headed into the cloud forest.
First, we stopped at the hummingbird gallery just outside the park. THE BIRDS!!!! The numerous, iridescent birds!! Purple and green and electric blue, jousting and feeding and flitting around. I thought I was going to get hit a few times.
But then. Then the forest.
Like pictures, words aren't going to do it any justice. I'll just say that we could barely take five steps without having to stop and stare open-mouthed at some gooey plant or practically tangible stream of sunlight through leaves or clouds so thick you can feel them in your hair or caterpillars the size of your index finger that are orange with white tufts of fuzz spiking out... It was humbling and awesome in the most literal sense.
After a while, maybe in a subconscious attempt to normalize our experience so that we wouldn't fall off the planet, we started making up jokes. One would set the circumstances, the other would add something, the first would add more, the other would tie it up with a punchline. And they were all Russian themed. Don't... Don't worry about that part.
This was the best one, punchline by Chelsea. Feel free to use it when at the 1950's dentist's office.
A woman was walking down the street in Vladivostok when a young thief ran past and stole her handbag. The woman chased after him until she saw a police officer.
"Officer, that boy just stole my bag!"
"I know," said the officer.
"Well, aren't you going to stop him?" She demanded.
"I would, you see, but it looks better on him."
After the cloud forest, we blearily rode a literal school bus back towards the hostel. On the way, I recognized the turn-off for the giant strangler fig I'd gone in search of the previous evening. We hopped off the bus and made our way up the hills and through the vines, wondering if every strangler fig we saw was the famous one.
But when we saw it, we knew.
It is several stories high. Inside, it's like someone braided wet tree limbs into a loose jungle gym. It's just a cylinder of lacy tree.
I climbed to the very top. It was scary and invigorating.
Back at the hostel, Allan was giving a tattoo to David, the owner. He asked if we could move the appointment up to that evening, since all his gear was set up.
While we waited for him to finish David's, we went back to the Herpetarium to see the night snakes.
First of all, WHAT A COOL THING TO DO, HERPETARIUM.
The snake house was dark. We were given flashlights and set loose. Most of the animals were just chilling in the same positions as before (which is one of the many tragedies of captivity), but some of the frogs were out and bouncing.
As we watched the boas, an employee came by. We asked a few boa-related questions and he got a little excited with us. He told us one of the boas eggs had just hatched.
Stay here. Just a second.
When he returned, it was with a large red plastic tub. He opened it and we peered inside. There, slithering thick on the bottom, were forty baby boa constrictors. They still had pieces of egg and hatching slime clinging to them. We just stared for minutes and minutes. BABY BOAS.
Oh! Also, this was the day we saw the baby sloth! But it was pretty low-key.
Okay, so we leave the snake house and head back to my impending tattoo.
Why did I decide to get it? I don't know. I liked that the hostel had a resident tattoo artist, I wanted the tattoo, I had had a profound moment during canyoning when I realized how deeply I love the natural world and I wanted to memorialize that somehow, and I guess the fact that my tattoo artist had been making our breakfast for the last three days sat well with me, as opposed to the clinical meet-stab-pay relationships you get with most tattoo parlors.
However. I was feeling just slightly uncomfortable with Allan. The getting of the tattoo itself was fine, although there was a slightly awkward moment when I was asked for a down-payment to cover "materials" (read as: cocaine). The good hostel dog, Sacha, sat beside me the whole time to make sure I wasn't too scared. For which I am extremely grateful.
Allan had had a little trouble with the gun, so he seemed pretty relieved when it was over and asked Chelsea and I out for drinks with the rest of the Tico entourage. Chelsea declined, but I went.
Things I learned while at the one bar in Monteverde with people who actually live there:
I guess shots aren't a social thing. People kept taking shots alone. I don't know if that was specific to this group or if it's cultural, but I definitely prefer social shots. Otherwise, it's just weird.
Cocaine. That IS a thing. My friend group at home definitely smokes weed, and although I don't personally, I'm comfortable around it, but this was the first time I'd ever seen a hard drug. It went like this:
Allan: Hey, we're going to get high. Want to come?
Me: What kind of high?
Allan: The other kind.
Me: (some inane response and a retreat into the bathroom)
I don't know a lot about coke, but it seemed like these people were doing A LOT of it. I just danced and lurked near the Swedes we'd met before until it was time to leave.
Chelsea pointed out that hard drugs could explain the construction of the hostel's bunk beds and bathrooms, which did seem to never have known a professional builder.
The next day, we took a bus to San Jose (AND IT ALMOST FELL OFF A CLIFF. The driver got out and measured the distance and the whole bus applauded when we made the turn), spent a peely night working off our sunburns, and flew home the following morning. Right now, I'm sitting in an airport in Philly, with hair severely shorn in an effort to avoid Lyme disease, awaiting a transfer to Bangor, Maine. Tomorrow, I'll start my southbound crack at the Appalachian Trail.
Costa Rica is a beautiful and sad place. I wish I could go as a non-tourist. Countries that rely on foreign moneys break my heart a little, but as tourism goes, I think Costa Rica is walking the line between tacky sellout and genuine artifact in an impressive way. I hope if it falls one way or another, it falls towards Screw The Northern World And Do Our Own Thing.
And I really want to learn Spanish now.
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