Joanna Biggar's Blog

Crossing Over

Everybody told us, oh, you should go over to the Limon side, the food is great (all kind of coconuts), the music is great (all kind of calypso/reggae) the people is great, all kind of relaxed…in a really laid-back country, that is some kind of recommendation.  They also told us the weather is “backwards” over there, meaning it’s the dry season on the Pacific coast but it could be rainin’ some on the other side. But they didn’t say monsoon.

The rain began in  El Parque National Braulio Carrillo. where it turned the tall, lush mountain rainforest one hundred shades of green, and slid into the waterfalls that tumbled down the mountain face every few hundred yards, and it just kept raining. It rained along the ragged road out of the park, filled with ruts and small-car-swallowing potholes, and it rained when we left, at last, the bus for the last leg of our journey on the Rio Tortuguero to the rushing lagoon of the same name, past the town of the same name until at last we reached our lodge, called Laguna. The last hour and a half of this eight-hour journey (we left on the first leg at 5:20 a.m.) was on an open-sided boat.  For the last leg of it, the plastic windows were rolled down to keep the arriving passengers from drowning in situ before arrival.

River Traffic

The boat ride was the first of many over the next couple of days, as was our glimpse of the town, with its cobbled-together, barely hanging in there houses and shops, mixed amongst others that seemed more prosperous and filled with hand-crafted jewelry, trinkets, and clothes.

House in Town

The lodge itself was an attractive place with a reception area that looked Gaudi-inspired, and individual cabins spread over well-kept grounds with gardens, a pool, and an open-air dining room (like most in this country), and my personal favorite, a thatched-roof bar over the lagoon…with Internet connection.

But if heat was the single word to describe the northwest province of Guanacaste, water defined El Parque National Torguguera, and its outskirts, where we were staying.  And it was water water everywhere, but not a drop to drink — or touch.

The narrow strip of sand where the lodges were located had once been a peninsula, but after a huge earthquake in 1991, had been turned into an island. On one side was the lagoon, with swiftly rushing current and crocodiles. On the other was the Caribbean sea, with pounding surf, dangerous current, sharks, and oh, yes, barracuda, just in case one had been tempted to take a dip. There was of course, the lodge swimming pool, but nobody, but a boisterous Israeli family with little kids, braved the rain to try it.