Like a wave liberating stir-crazy sea creatures from an overcrowded tide pool, the bus with my group of friends and raft guides just departed the hostel for the San Jose airport. I was tempted to hop on and see them off at the terminal, but I have decided to stay here and let the profound peace of being solo penetrate my bones. It has been a fun sixteen days filled with eating , drinking, rafting some huge rivers, zip lining through the rainforest canopy and surfing and swimming at the beach. Nothing makes you feel more like an ugly American than traveling on a tour bus with a group from the States. In the past I would have been uncomfortable being part of a large group of American tourists, but this time I just embraced it and enjoyed the safety and security. I also enjoyed having someone else doing the thinking. Denielle did this masterfully, though judging by her demeanor this morning, she is at the end of her frayed rope. Fortunately for her, she and her boyfriend Peter the documentary film maker, will soon get their own vacation. I managed to avoid many of the challenges of foreign travel so far this trip, but the rivers we ran presented some of their own. Day one of rafting was a gentle and pristine meander through the rainforest on the Pejibaye. The blue butterflies, giant spiders, and an array of tropical birds with colors so bright it looked like they were poured out of a box of Fruit Loops, made it feel like we were floating through a Walt Disney movie. When I took my turn guiding the boat the fun level greatly increased. I have noticed lately just how much us humans like to be in control. Where raft guides are concerned, I believe you can multiply this by ten. This being said, enter day two… Our little bus spent three hours corkscrewing its way up, around and down the forested spine of Costa Rican mountains looking for the guides and horses who were waiting for us at the beginning of the hike to the put-in. When we got to the trailhead, the horses were loaded with gear and we began a two and a half hour journey of hiking up and down the steep and muddy trail to the headwaters of the Rio Pacuare. The trail took us through dense forest, past waterfalls and through a homestead inhabited by local Indians. I was one of the last ones to arrive at the put-in due to the time I spent eating guava and raspberries along the trail. It had been decided that Ashley, another guide and I would R-2 (only two paddlers) “Captain America,” a tiny raft with two pontoons that looked like a catamaran. With the right duo, this style of paddling can be extremely fun. With Ashley and I, it was, well, let’s just say “extreme.” I could blame this on a number of things, but I’ll not dive into speculation. I will say that it felt like we were a dysfunctional ant couple using a breath mint to slide down a dragon’s back. It worked pretty well when we were riding up and down the giant wave trains, but when we found ourselves in the recirculating holes, the dragon’s mouth, there was no escape. The first time we managed to surf for quite a while, paddling in vein to escape, until I was thrown out and was able to push the raft with Ashley into the moving current. The second time we weren’t that lucky. We surfed and surfed until the hole swallowed us flipping the raft and sending Ashley one way and Captain America and I another. I swam for at least a half mile trying to mount the tiny raft, but the dragon smashed me into giant boulders taking my strength and my breath. Finally, thanks to the look of impending danger reflected in the safety kayaker’s eyes (the raft obscured my view of the river ahead), I mustered the strength to pull myself onto the capsized raft and made my way to an eddy. As I sat there exhausted and bruised, another raft pulled up with Ashley smiling safely inside. “I’m going to go in this raft,” she informed. Finally the rest of the rafts pulled up and asked me if I wanted to jump in a raft. “No, that’s ok,” I lied, knowing that if I chickened out now I would lose my nerve. At that point, Brian, a senior guide, said he’d join me, though it was clear that he didn’t really want to. I was relieved, but it was more the relief you would get if you were scared of heights and you were informed that they put a little padding on the handle of your parachute’s rip cord. Brian and I took our seats on the little raft and pushed strongly forward. It felt good to have a paddler with similar strength and size. Still, Brian shouting “This is fucked up, I can’t believe they gave us this shitty little raft,” didn’t do much to ease my anxiety. An hour later we pulled up to shore where we would be camping in the heavy rain. I put my tent up a few steps from food tent, stuffed as much food into my depleted body as possible, and retired with a bag of ice pressed against my bruised femur. The group partied like raft guides should that night. I laid there giving prayers of thanks for solid ground. That was the last time that trip that I set butt on Captain America. From then on I enjoyed the various rivers we ran from a seat in a regular raft. I managed to followed rule #1 the rest of the trip and stayed in the boat having a hell of a good time in the process. Now with my time traveling with a group finished, I am off to the Caribbean coast to unwind in the Rasta vibe.
