As a useful form of local identification and for future use when driving in Costa Rica, we decided to get CR driving licenses. This turned out to be another labyrinthine adventure, so you may like to read a blow-by-blow account of the day. "CRC" is shorthand for Costa Rican colones. As of today, one Cdn$ = 538 CRC.
0500 - up for early breakfast and watch birds; weather overcast, calm, mild
0630 - catch local bus down to Grecia; 275 CRC each
0658 - arrive Grecia bus station
0707 - depart Grecia on nice coach for San Jose; 770 CRC each
0746 - stop at airport
0825 - arrive at downtown San Jose at main street (Paseo Colon)
0827 - hailed taxi to La Uruca, area of driving license offices. Janet asked what it would cost, driver said "3000 colones"; we offered 2000, and he countered with 2500. En route, Janet inquired why the meter was not running. Exasperated, driver said "because you asked me for a price!". The driver reluctantly started the meter, and it totalled 850 colones at our destination. Janet gave him 1200 to account for lost meter time and we learned our lesson to always have the meter running when taking a taxi in CR.
0833 - out of taxi and into first building
0840 - Start of process; give blood type sample and get physical examination by CR doctor; US$15 each.
0855 - Out the door with both blood samples and "physical exams" done! The exams were a joke - other than taking blood pressure, the doctor just sits with a form and very rapidly ticks items as he rattles off ailments and your answers. He even asked us for our height and weight rather than measuring himself.
0903 - Walked up the street 100 m to complex of government buildings ("COSEVI"), where driving documents are administered. Armed guard at gate, and outside gate a crowd of local touts seeking to steer you through the process for a fee. We had info from others here, so just did it all ourselves. Walked to office and saw LONG line-up - about 100 people outside the doors, and another 30-40 on chairs inside. We went to head of line and talked to another (armed) guard -then walked upstairs to separate office for non-nationals, and a line of only 5 people to our first interview to have our passports checked and copies of our Canadian Drivers Licences stamped and dated.
0917 - Finished with our first interview with gov official (Marielos Hernandez - an avid fan of local soccer team Sarparissa - mugs, banners, photos everywhere; she is only fractionally responsive to any dialogue and moves at the single "on" speed of government officials). We continue on to another line (now about 8).
1000 - Both met with a single official methodically entering all pertinent information for each license into computer. Careful cross-checks, relooking, slow typing, more looking. We are both told the same stock phrase - that we must now go out to a nearby bank to pay for the license fee and bring back the receipt to this office (but another line), for photos.
1022 - Completed walking out to street again, over to Banco de Costa Rica, paid 4,000 CRC each, get receipt, walk back to COSEVI offices.
1030 - both now in 3rd line, waiting for photos in cubicles with other officials and camera/printing machines. For some reason, we are allowed to cut in front of all of the 100+ waiting people for photos. We feel many eyes looking at us as we wait.
1035 - in for photos. Official now brings up our file on computer, we touch our right forefinger pad to a photo-finger print machine 5 separate times (! why could the electronic file not be copied is a mystery)
1038 - both out of photo booths and elated - we are nearly through. But Janet notices a mistake on her driving license!! "BRDSHAW" instead of "BRADSHAW" - eeooaahhoohh! Janet must march back up to the single computer guy, cut in line between people, get the correction done, go back downstairs, wait under the stares for another photo opening.
1040 - Miraculously, Janet is in front of the photo official again when... she takes a coffee break. Just gets up and walks away without a word. I advise Janet NOT to move from that seat.
1050 - After about 15 minutes the woman returns with coffee cup and part of a cookie. Resumes work without a word.
1055 - Janet has corrected DL and WE ARE DONE!
1100 - coffee and snack in small soda (cafe) near office.
1127 - bus to Hospital Mexico main bus stop; 150 CRC each
1208 - caught bus to Grecia; 770 CRC each
1301 - caught bus to our ridge above town; 275 CRC each
1346 - at home with a glass of wine in hand.
Total elapsed time: 7 hrs and 16 min.
The DLs here are nifty - they have photo ID, passport no., blood type, donor status, birthdate and are valid for 3 years.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
A pizza we couldn't refuse
Acting on advice from longer-resident Canadians, we searched out an Italian restaurant in Grecia - Cuchina Italiano. A narrow frontage with paned glass to the street, a single door opened to a long narrow wood-panelled dining room with about 8 tables; at the end a counter with over-hanging cabinets, then a white-walled, neon-lit kitchen at back. In that kitchen, a short stout man with buzz cut white hair rubbed the shoulders of a woman. Only one other customer was there, an ex-police woman from California with a little Chihuahua poking his nose out of her shoulder bag on the chair beside.
Around the walls were black and white stills of famous movie scenes - Clint chomping a cigar from a Fist Full of Dollars, Yule Brinner in magnificent black ready to draw from The Magnificent Seven, Humphrey Bogart, Marylin Monroe, dozens more. Eventually, the woman came out with two menus and a broad Brooklyn "ha-wah-ya?"
We sat and ordered a pizza from the woman, after assurances that it was thin crust "Noo Yaw-wuk" style. When we asked where the house wine came from, she laughed and said "Grapes." This was shaping up to be a Seinfeld episode.
The wine (from Chile) arrived, and a glass later, the pizza - hot, aromatic - perched on a pizza stand with hot chile flakes and parmesean shakers beneath. We started in - it was indeed thin crust, but likely a thick crust mashed flat and not permitted to rise. It was an 1/8 inch of tough white dough, that took some determination to chew.
We learned on second passes from the woman that they were from "New Joisey" and had been there "fo-ah yay-ahs". We had heard that the man was named Ronnie Gambino. I started to connect the dots. After we finished, I went up to pay. Mr. Gambino was sitting at the last table, smoking and surveying his two customers. I said "I didn't like the pizza." He looked up with a steady gaze - to which I smiled and said "Actually, it tasted great". We fell to taw-king. He was on the outs with his jealous business neighbors cuz he doesn't put up with any crap. They expected him to fold long ago and he hasn't. He says - yoo know how many staff he hired in the first 5 months?? 32! "They come hee-ah thinkin' I'm fresh meat, but after they figure I know what's goin' on - they-ah gawn". With that he makes a slicing motion with his right palm over the upturned left palm. This has a fatal connotation.
He was born in Sicily and "used to live in New Yaw-wuk and New Joisey, then ran a bar in south Flah-rida". After talking to his son (who lives in Atlantic City!), he came hee-ah. It began to dawn on me that satisfactory returns from this restaurant business may not be the sole reason he has been here for years. At one point, he was called to the phone to take an order - after some back and forth discussion, we overheard "What? Are you stupid? You stupid!?" Phone slams down. Now that's customer relations - Noo Yaw-wuk style.
A fascinating character - we left thanking him for a very good meal, Mr. Gambino! It was a pizza we could not refuse...
Around the walls were black and white stills of famous movie scenes - Clint chomping a cigar from a Fist Full of Dollars, Yule Brinner in magnificent black ready to draw from The Magnificent Seven, Humphrey Bogart, Marylin Monroe, dozens more. Eventually, the woman came out with two menus and a broad Brooklyn "ha-wah-ya?"
We sat and ordered a pizza from the woman, after assurances that it was thin crust "Noo Yaw-wuk" style. When we asked where the house wine came from, she laughed and said "Grapes." This was shaping up to be a Seinfeld episode.
The wine (from Chile) arrived, and a glass later, the pizza - hot, aromatic - perched on a pizza stand with hot chile flakes and parmesean shakers beneath. We started in - it was indeed thin crust, but likely a thick crust mashed flat and not permitted to rise. It was an 1/8 inch of tough white dough, that took some determination to chew.
We learned on second passes from the woman that they were from "New Joisey" and had been there "fo-ah yay-ahs". We had heard that the man was named Ronnie Gambino. I started to connect the dots. After we finished, I went up to pay. Mr. Gambino was sitting at the last table, smoking and surveying his two customers. I said "I didn't like the pizza." He looked up with a steady gaze - to which I smiled and said "Actually, it tasted great". We fell to taw-king. He was on the outs with his jealous business neighbors cuz he doesn't put up with any crap. They expected him to fold long ago and he hasn't. He says - yoo know how many staff he hired in the first 5 months?? 32! "They come hee-ah thinkin' I'm fresh meat, but after they figure I know what's goin' on - they-ah gawn". With that he makes a slicing motion with his right palm over the upturned left palm. This has a fatal connotation.
He was born in Sicily and "used to live in New Yaw-wuk and New Joisey, then ran a bar in south Flah-rida". After talking to his son (who lives in Atlantic City!), he came hee-ah. It began to dawn on me that satisfactory returns from this restaurant business may not be the sole reason he has been here for years. At one point, he was called to the phone to take an order - after some back and forth discussion, we overheard "What? Are you stupid? You stupid!?" Phone slams down. Now that's customer relations - Noo Yaw-wuk style.
A fascinating character - we left thanking him for a very good meal, Mr. Gambino! It was a pizza we could not refuse...
Birds of a different feather
Always interested to attract more interesting birds, we manufactured a homemade birdseed feeder by cutting small holes in the side of a plastic tub, filling with mixed seed feed, installing on a board nailed to a pine tree, and waiting. This is a tried and true method that works in Newfoundland (according to Janet's Dad, Mark Piercey), but not so here.
Days later, not a single bird had come to it, and not even the squirrels were much interested. We moved this feeder to different places - same result. Once a couple of Rufous-collared Sparrows nosed around, but didn't come back.
Our homemade feeder - a dismal failure.
What birds here like is FRUIT! Bananas are the favourite.
Blue-gray tanager at our banana bird feeder. Finishing nails in a plank with chunks of banana impaled on the nails. Birds eat them right down to the peel!
Days later, not a single bird had come to it, and not even the squirrels were much interested. We moved this feeder to different places - same result. Once a couple of Rufous-collared Sparrows nosed around, but didn't come back.
Our homemade feeder - a dismal failure.
What birds here like is FRUIT! Bananas are the favourite.
Blue-gray tanager at our banana bird feeder. Finishing nails in a plank with chunks of banana impaled on the nails. Birds eat them right down to the peel!
Monday, November 23, 2009
La Marina Wildlife Rescue Center Photos
Because of awkward editing on this blogger software, it was easier to post these photos separately.
Scarlet Macaw communing with Janet. These birds roam free and must like the free food and security here. They squawk all the time like crotchety curmudgeons anyway.
Peccary; about 80 cm long & up to 20 kg. These chappies move around in packs of up to 300 in the wild and can be noisy and aggressive. One guide says the best defense is to climb a tree.
Nothing like a good snooze in the sun in the mud with your fellow peccaries.
A lioness snoozing in midday with a black vulture creeping around looking for insects (even off the lion's back when it rolled over).
Snoozing crocodile. His eyes don't sleep though and his sharp white teeth speak of diligent dental hygiene.
Trail through the reserve.
Banana tree with full-sized fruit. We understand that after each bunch of bananas grows, the tree dies and falls over, and a new one springs up along side.
Banana spider. These hairy-legged fellows are over 2 inches long. Good to watch out for when plucking at bananas in the forest.
Baird's tapir. This one was about 1.5 m long and had a broad mouth, small teeth and big floppy lips. This is Central America's largest land mammal and is much-sought after by hunters.
The rescue facility has a breeding program for Tapirs.
The diminutive Agouti - a small rodent-like animal running free in the reserve. This guy was growling at us just after we entered, so we didn't hang around long.
Scarlet Macaw communing with Janet. These birds roam free and must like the free food and security here. They squawk all the time like crotchety curmudgeons anyway.
Peccary; about 80 cm long & up to 20 kg. These chappies move around in packs of up to 300 in the wild and can be noisy and aggressive. One guide says the best defense is to climb a tree.
Nothing like a good snooze in the sun in the mud with your fellow peccaries.
A lioness snoozing in midday with a black vulture creeping around looking for insects (even off the lion's back when it rolled over).
Snoozing crocodile. His eyes don't sleep though and his sharp white teeth speak of diligent dental hygiene.
Trail through the reserve.
Banana tree with full-sized fruit. We understand that after each bunch of bananas grows, the tree dies and falls over, and a new one springs up along side.
Banana spider. These hairy-legged fellows are over 2 inches long. Good to watch out for when plucking at bananas in the forest.
Baird's tapir. This one was about 1.5 m long and had a broad mouth, small teeth and big floppy lips. This is Central America's largest land mammal and is much-sought after by hunters.
The rescue facility has a breeding program for Tapirs.
The diminutive Agouti - a small rodent-like animal running free in the reserve. This guy was growling at us just after we entered, so we didn't hang around long.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
La Marina Wildlife Rescue Center
On November 10 we made a bus expedition to the La Marina Wildlife Rescue Center, located just northeast of Ciudad Quesada (also known as San Carlos) in central CR. We rose early and started our journey at 06:30. Four buses later, we got off right in front at 11:40.
We ate our packed lunch topped off with a Pepsi and a locally-made "Hamlet" chocolate bar - kind of cheap milk chocolate over rice crispies. At 26 cents, it was worth a try, but not in the same league as a Snickers bar... We also found a neat little travelling dominoes set, which we bought. In we went.
The rescue center is built on a former dairy farm, started in 1957 on 11 hectares (27 acres) of rolling pasture and forest, and narrowly subsisting on donations and volunteer effort (http://www.zoocostarica.com/). It has 300-400 animal species in enclosures and 100 more walking, crawling or flying around freely.
Being an overcast day in Nov, we appeared to be the only visitors on this huge reserve. A gravel, wood plank or cinder block trail winds through forests teeming with birds and ground animals. Scarlet macaws, free to fly off, perch ten feet away - complaining noisily about nothing in particular. A whole host of other birds abound, along with ground animals, chattering squirrels and silent deer roaming freely. Within clusters of cages interspersed here and there are many tropical exotic species recovering from injuries and, if possible, to be returned to protected wild areas.
Monkeys hang lazily on wire mesh, looking at you at eye level from 6 inches away, their brown wrinkled small child-like fingers draping through to stroke.
Two African lionesses were donated by the BBC for the good works of the center, which subsists on donations and volunteers. A range of CR cats (marguay, ocelot, leopard, puma) do not have it so good - they are caged in small concrete enclosures, waiting for donations for a larger enclosure. This area is one we will look into more closely in future. In a separate post are some images from our tour.
Monday, November 9, 2009
Our house in Grecia
Well, we finally settled for a month trial basis into a rented house in the hills above Grecia, central valley, Costa Rica. This is a two-storey wooden cabina with 3 BRs, 1 Bathroom and 1345 sq ft. It is situated among a stand of tall pines, originally planted for power poles, at an elevation of 4,200 ft along a ridge on the flank of Vulcan Poas. This setting gives temperate days and fresh nights ideal for sleeping under a blanket. The plot of land is 3.5 acres, streching from the ridge road down 1,000 feet to a small river, providing a watery soundtrack to the long vistas. It is normally quiet, but now and then interrupted by 2 cycle motorcycles or ATVs that rip by along the ridge road like motorized fingernails on a blackboard. Except for those brief moments of round-eyed anguish, this is a lovely and tranquil place.
We have met several neighbours and they are smiling, gentle people with a ready wave and buenos dias.
It is rainy season, so every day around noon onward it clouds over with heavy rain and perhaps thunder showers and lightning. As we are surrounded by 100 foot tall pine-scented lightning rods, we unplug critical electronics when lightning is about.
We are slowly winning the battle with inquisitive insects who seem to really want to come in and visit us.
Our cabina.
Kitchen and spiral staircase to second floor
Master bedroom upstairs.
View of Central Valley from 2nd floor veranda
View across(through the pines) to coffee fields on next ridge to west.
Our laundry room is outdoors, just steps from the clothesline.
A pair of blue-crowned mot-mots are regulars in the garden. They love banana and will sit still for minutes at a time while you look at them, and they look at you.
We have met several neighbours and they are smiling, gentle people with a ready wave and buenos dias.
It is rainy season, so every day around noon onward it clouds over with heavy rain and perhaps thunder showers and lightning. As we are surrounded by 100 foot tall pine-scented lightning rods, we unplug critical electronics when lightning is about.
We are slowly winning the battle with inquisitive insects who seem to really want to come in and visit us.
Our cabina.
Kitchen and spiral staircase to second floor
Master bedroom upstairs.
View of Central Valley from 2nd floor veranda
View across(through the pines) to coffee fields on next ridge to west.
Our laundry room is outdoors, just steps from the clothesline.
A pair of blue-crowned mot-mots are regulars in the garden. They love banana and will sit still for minutes at a time while you look at them, and they look at you.
Birthday Bus Ride back to Costa Rica
We travelled back to Costa Rica on Oct 24, Scotts birthday. Here is the tale.
We started at 6:30 am in the town of Boquete in western Panama; 45 min ride on an old school bus to David, Panama. Then switch over to a coach for one hour ride to the frontier. This is a chaotic jumble of administrative buildings, venders, sodas (small roadside cafeterias), stray dogs, huge idling transport trucks, buses, bicycles, cars, pedestrians and on-lookers.
We first got out of our coach, unloaded all our luggage, and stood in a circular (!) room to have our bags "checked for contraband". After 20 minutes, the driver barked something unintelligible and waved his hand to put our bags back on the bus. He must have talked to someone. Bags back on the bus, then he took off (!) and we were in a long line (75 people) to a glass window to Migracion to exit panama. The officials actions were mechanical: look at us, swipe passport in Interpol computer, stamp, next.
Then utter confusion. No bus, no signs, just throngs of milling people. We wandered to the end of the complex and looked into no mans land toward Costa Rica. We asked where the CR migracion was and a sitting guy pointed toward CR and said "dos cientos metros" - 200 m to go. Shouldering our day packs, off we walked, dodging huge lumbering trucks, buses, potholes, dogs, etc. About midway to somewhere we saw a recognizable small police building with a uniformed man, carrying an assault rifle. That must be the actual border and likely the last inch of Panama (where open weapons are common). On we wandered and asked a boy vender - "cien metros", pointing toward Costa Rica - 100 m to go; half way there.
100 m later we turn a corner of a nondescript concrete block building to see a rank of more glass windows, two saying "Entrada" - the entrance to Costa Rica. We wait in line again; another look, swipe, stamp, but this time a friendly "buen viaje" - actual friendly immigraion officers! Then we spy our big red coach - at least we will get our packs back.
We wait until another bus is clear, then we again unload our packs and move into a wire-fenced compound with concrete tables. Wait in line with all other passengers and their packs with no activity for 20 minutes. This may be a power thing, since the very same bystanders suddenly become officials and walk forward to beckon lines to the tables. The casually dressed women ask you to open packs and take a nominal 2 millisecond look, then zip up. For us, we just laid our packs on the table, and she waived us on. We put packs back on the bus. Bus driver checks that all are present (he has a manifest to check for missing persons), then off we go. Total time at the frontier: 1 hr 55 minutes.
On the partly full bus, we lumber through spectacular scenery of southern Pacific Costa Rica with gushing rivers and sweeping forested hillsides, snooze, stop for washroom and snack break. On and on and on - arriving in San Jose at 5:00 pm, just as night is falling. This is not the best scenario - as dangerous areas in San Jose magnify in the absence of light. We laboriously offload pack by pack, driver checking each tag against our claim ticket. We take a red taxi to the bus station for Grecia, in the heart of Barrio Los Angeles. We're not sure where this is, but it seems to be in the district of the infamous Coca Cola - a former bottling plant area, now the center of many bus stations and lots of criminals, called the Red Zone.
Fortunately, our taxi pulls up out of the heart of darkness right in front of the bus for Grecia as it is pulling out. We jump out, catch the bus driver's eye, and we jump on. It is a nice full sized coach with padded seats. It is full with a crying toddler right behind us - but we were happy to be on our last leg.
We arrived in Grecia in a steady rain, all bags accounted for and happy as clams. Umbrellas out, we walked 5 min to our B &B, our Calgarian innkeeper greeting us safe and sound. Later that night, freshly scrubbed, we walked to a very nice restaurant and had a bottle of Chilean wine and (surprisingly) a very good steak. A wonderful birthday meal to cap off all 350 miles of our trip...
We started at 6:30 am in the town of Boquete in western Panama; 45 min ride on an old school bus to David, Panama. Then switch over to a coach for one hour ride to the frontier. This is a chaotic jumble of administrative buildings, venders, sodas (small roadside cafeterias), stray dogs, huge idling transport trucks, buses, bicycles, cars, pedestrians and on-lookers.
We first got out of our coach, unloaded all our luggage, and stood in a circular (!) room to have our bags "checked for contraband". After 20 minutes, the driver barked something unintelligible and waved his hand to put our bags back on the bus. He must have talked to someone. Bags back on the bus, then he took off (!) and we were in a long line (75 people) to a glass window to Migracion to exit panama. The officials actions were mechanical: look at us, swipe passport in Interpol computer, stamp, next.
Then utter confusion. No bus, no signs, just throngs of milling people. We wandered to the end of the complex and looked into no mans land toward Costa Rica. We asked where the CR migracion was and a sitting guy pointed toward CR and said "dos cientos metros" - 200 m to go. Shouldering our day packs, off we walked, dodging huge lumbering trucks, buses, potholes, dogs, etc. About midway to somewhere we saw a recognizable small police building with a uniformed man, carrying an assault rifle. That must be the actual border and likely the last inch of Panama (where open weapons are common). On we wandered and asked a boy vender - "cien metros", pointing toward Costa Rica - 100 m to go; half way there.
100 m later we turn a corner of a nondescript concrete block building to see a rank of more glass windows, two saying "Entrada" - the entrance to Costa Rica. We wait in line again; another look, swipe, stamp, but this time a friendly "buen viaje" - actual friendly immigraion officers! Then we spy our big red coach - at least we will get our packs back.
We wait until another bus is clear, then we again unload our packs and move into a wire-fenced compound with concrete tables. Wait in line with all other passengers and their packs with no activity for 20 minutes. This may be a power thing, since the very same bystanders suddenly become officials and walk forward to beckon lines to the tables. The casually dressed women ask you to open packs and take a nominal 2 millisecond look, then zip up. For us, we just laid our packs on the table, and she waived us on. We put packs back on the bus. Bus driver checks that all are present (he has a manifest to check for missing persons), then off we go. Total time at the frontier: 1 hr 55 minutes.
On the partly full bus, we lumber through spectacular scenery of southern Pacific Costa Rica with gushing rivers and sweeping forested hillsides, snooze, stop for washroom and snack break. On and on and on - arriving in San Jose at 5:00 pm, just as night is falling. This is not the best scenario - as dangerous areas in San Jose magnify in the absence of light. We laboriously offload pack by pack, driver checking each tag against our claim ticket. We take a red taxi to the bus station for Grecia, in the heart of Barrio Los Angeles. We're not sure where this is, but it seems to be in the district of the infamous Coca Cola - a former bottling plant area, now the center of many bus stations and lots of criminals, called the Red Zone.
Fortunately, our taxi pulls up out of the heart of darkness right in front of the bus for Grecia as it is pulling out. We jump out, catch the bus driver's eye, and we jump on. It is a nice full sized coach with padded seats. It is full with a crying toddler right behind us - but we were happy to be on our last leg.
We arrived in Grecia in a steady rain, all bags accounted for and happy as clams. Umbrellas out, we walked 5 min to our B &B, our Calgarian innkeeper greeting us safe and sound. Later that night, freshly scrubbed, we walked to a very nice restaurant and had a bottle of Chilean wine and (surprisingly) a very good steak. A wonderful birthday meal to cap off all 350 miles of our trip...
Boquete, Panama
Our last week of Spanish school was in Boquete, Panama; in the central highlands, just over the border from Costa Rica. This was lovely high country, with cool (even cold) temperatures and the hardest rain we have seen yet. It rained a lot - days worth in a matter of hours. We had a load of clothes washed and it took 2 days to dry on the line.
This was a pleasant quiet place with fantastic colourful woodland tropical birds. One afternoon, we visited a wildlife rehabilitation park, run privately in Boquete. In a large landscaped grounds and a large house, many birds and mammals (including an elegant teenage marguay cat) are nursed and loved back to life after some major trauma. This started with one injured animal, then blossomed over the years to all sorts of creatures. Panama offers rules and permits, but no funding or in-kind help, so this operation runs on donations from visitors.
While there, we talked with a woman who manages the place. This blue macaw was sitting on her shoulder. Talk about a distraction! He is originally from Brazil, and came with her from the US before the current rules prohibiting their transport. They are very rare because they are poached and sold on the black market as exotic pets. A magnificent bird that can live 100 years. They are often included in wills, as they normally outlive their owners.
He either likes you or does not. Like means he will walk onto your shoulder or arm and not peck or bite if you immediately shuttle him to his owner. Like, as in Give me a lift or lose an ear. He is convincing. He walked down this cage and onto my shoulder, gazing at me with yellow-ringed bottomless eyes. I gave him a lift. I did not have a feeling he liked me, but I still have both ears so he must have.
This fellow is about 2 feet tall in the body with another 18 inches of tail. His beak can exert 20,000 lbs of compression (cracking the hardest nuts, and easily removing fingers if needed). When he sits on your shoulder, you do what he wants.
This was a pleasant quiet place with fantastic colourful woodland tropical birds. One afternoon, we visited a wildlife rehabilitation park, run privately in Boquete. In a large landscaped grounds and a large house, many birds and mammals (including an elegant teenage marguay cat) are nursed and loved back to life after some major trauma. This started with one injured animal, then blossomed over the years to all sorts of creatures. Panama offers rules and permits, but no funding or in-kind help, so this operation runs on donations from visitors.
While there, we talked with a woman who manages the place. This blue macaw was sitting on her shoulder. Talk about a distraction! He is originally from Brazil, and came with her from the US before the current rules prohibiting their transport. They are very rare because they are poached and sold on the black market as exotic pets. A magnificent bird that can live 100 years. They are often included in wills, as they normally outlive their owners.
He either likes you or does not. Like means he will walk onto your shoulder or arm and not peck or bite if you immediately shuttle him to his owner. Like, as in Give me a lift or lose an ear. He is convincing. He walked down this cage and onto my shoulder, gazing at me with yellow-ringed bottomless eyes. I gave him a lift. I did not have a feeling he liked me, but I still have both ears so he must have.
This fellow is about 2 feet tall in the body with another 18 inches of tail. His beak can exert 20,000 lbs of compression (cracking the hardest nuts, and easily removing fingers if needed). When he sits on your shoulder, you do what he wants.
Leaf cutter ants
Here is a video of some very industrious leaf cutter ants. We visited a research station of the Smithsonian Institute located on the outskirts of Bocas del Toro. While walking the grounds, our guide pointed out this ant highway that led from a nearly denuded large bush to the ant colony 75 METERS away! These guys send out scouts who report back the presence of suitable leaves by their pheromone-scented trail. Then armies of worker ants march to the target, chew off bits of leaf and carry their towering loads these immense ant distances. Once in the colony, the leaves form a base for a specialized fungus. The ants essentially farm the fungus underground using the leaves as feed stock. For more info on these amazing creatures, check out: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Leafcutter_ant
Starfish Beach, Bocas del Toro
One free afternoon, we rode a bus across the island to visit Starfish Beach. This is an area of clean sandy shoreline with calm, warm water where hundreds of large starfish congregate right by the shore. Janet, Eli and I hiked the shoreline for a couple of kilometers (wading aross a clear stream leaving a backwater lagoon) until we found the starfish. You come upon them suddenly, and realize you have walked by a number already. They don't make much noise.
A pleasant afternoon of wading kneedeep among the starfish, talking about life while sitting on driftwood, drinking all six of Eli's cervezas, listening to the call of a bellbird (a truly strange tropical bird with stringy wattles hanging off its face) from the dense mangrove and soaking in this mangrove coast that has not changed much in a long time. As we stood knee deep in water gazing at the starfish, along the shore and within several feet of us raced a school of slender silver baby barracudas about one foot long. Eli said keep an eye out for mama. We did.
The trail to Starfish Beach. Flipflops are handy to quickly take off during wading around fallen palms and streams entering the sea.
View up the beach from starfish beach. Coconut palms along the shore, mangrove swamp behind.
Starfish on clean sand in two feet of water; warm as a bath.
A balsa wood pirogue carved from one tree trunk. About 12 feet long.
The walk back.
A pleasant afternoon of wading kneedeep among the starfish, talking about life while sitting on driftwood, drinking all six of Eli's cervezas, listening to the call of a bellbird (a truly strange tropical bird with stringy wattles hanging off its face) from the dense mangrove and soaking in this mangrove coast that has not changed much in a long time. As we stood knee deep in water gazing at the starfish, along the shore and within several feet of us raced a school of slender silver baby barracudas about one foot long. Eli said keep an eye out for mama. We did.
The trail to Starfish Beach. Flipflops are handy to quickly take off during wading around fallen palms and streams entering the sea.
View up the beach from starfish beach. Coconut palms along the shore, mangrove swamp behind.
Starfish on clean sand in two feet of water; warm as a bath.
A balsa wood pirogue carved from one tree trunk. About 12 feet long.
The walk back.
Cooking Class in Spanish School
During our week in Bocas, we had a cooking class. The photos below show the highlights. Our menu included fishhead soup, Caribbean rice, roasted whole red snapper, and mixed green salad. We all helped chop things, cook things, eat things, clean up and drink everything in sight (our instructor passed the hat for an additional cerveza run). Needless to say it was a glorious meal.
Our menu
Our 14 pound red snapper, caught that day by local fisherman.
His head went in the soup.
Fish (less head, the soup is on...) being stuffed with garlic cloves and pineapple in exterior slits. Then squeeze lemon juice over, wrap in tin foil for roasting on barbeque.
Ready to eat and absolutely delicious.
Our menu
Our 14 pound red snapper, caught that day by local fisherman.
His head went in the soup.
Fish (less head, the soup is on...) being stuffed with garlic cloves and pineapple in exterior slits. Then squeeze lemon juice over, wrap in tin foil for roasting on barbeque.
Ready to eat and absolutely delicious.
Bocas del Toro
On our boat trip over to the islands that make up the community of Bocas del Toro (mouths of the bull) we loaded all our gear, people AND a kitchen sink into the wooden "launcha". Wood plank seats and backs across the boat served to seat 4 per row. Our boat was somewhat unusual as there were lifejackets at hand, but buckled on to the seats in front of us. No one wore them, but no problem - we just would quickly unbuckle them and untangle them from the seat in front of us, put them on over our heads, adjust the straps and clip the buckles while the boat foundered or capsized. Fortunately we did have need to try this.
Bocas del Toro is both a province of Panama and a town on Isla Colon (named after that famous explorer who first visited these shores around 1500; in Catalan: Cristòfor Colom; Spanish: Cristóbal Colón; Portuguese: Cristóvão Colombo; Latin: Christophorus Columbus. Morphed for pleasing N. American consumption to Christopher Columbus). The town developed based on fishing industry, and is now a slow-moving Caribbean commercial hub, with the many cultural layers of Spanish, indigenous tribes, black slaves, European entrepeneurs and lately Jamaican-style Rastafarians and mostly 20-something backpacking tourists. Locals ride leisurely up and down the main street on fat-tired bicycles with big saddle seats and high wide handle bars that look like horns on a Texas longhorn cow. The local pidgin dialect is a patois of spanish, english, slang, with a spice of voodoo.
Bocas was not for us - hot, muggy, trashy. There was burning garbage in the street outside our apartment next to the airport. Several times a day, turbo-prop passenger planes would land, disgorge passengers, refuel, take on new passengers - all while idling with droning engines about 200 yards from our front window. This had a damping effect which brought all conversation, reading, and sleeping to a halt. Much of the attitude and somewhat remoteness of the people were the same as in Cahuita, but with a different flavour.
Redeeming features in this group of islands were stunning beaches, good birds, fish and mangroves. Plunked in the middle of one island is one of the BEST Thai restaurants we have been to. 13 of us went over at night in a 25 foot open launch (standard issue - no lights, no lifejackets), hiked up the hill into the darkness of a jungle trail (our group lit with one flashlight, one penlight and several cell phone lights) - to emerge after about 1.5 kilometers at the restaurant - a private house of a Thai woman and son, who host, take orders, cook and clean up. Tables in open air teak verandas looking out through the inky palm fringe to the distant lights. Choruses of deep-throated frogs serenaded us as we dined in the soft night air.
This was a highpoint - but we were glad to move on to week three of language school in the central highlands of Boquete, Panama.
Boat trip to Bocas (including kitchen sink)
Red mangroves on the approach to Bocas. These marvelous plants are among the best natural shoreline protection from tidal waves and hurricanes.
A government building in Bocas as we walked down the main street to our school
We had a salsa dancing lesson at one bar on a small island. But dancing quickly gave way refreshments at the bar. I believe Janet is here explaining to our dancing instructor (in Spanish) the cultural importance of rum for Newfoundlanders.
Bocas del Toro is both a province of Panama and a town on Isla Colon (named after that famous explorer who first visited these shores around 1500; in Catalan: Cristòfor Colom; Spanish: Cristóbal Colón; Portuguese: Cristóvão Colombo; Latin: Christophorus Columbus. Morphed for pleasing N. American consumption to Christopher Columbus). The town developed based on fishing industry, and is now a slow-moving Caribbean commercial hub, with the many cultural layers of Spanish, indigenous tribes, black slaves, European entrepeneurs and lately Jamaican-style Rastafarians and mostly 20-something backpacking tourists. Locals ride leisurely up and down the main street on fat-tired bicycles with big saddle seats and high wide handle bars that look like horns on a Texas longhorn cow. The local pidgin dialect is a patois of spanish, english, slang, with a spice of voodoo.
Bocas was not for us - hot, muggy, trashy. There was burning garbage in the street outside our apartment next to the airport. Several times a day, turbo-prop passenger planes would land, disgorge passengers, refuel, take on new passengers - all while idling with droning engines about 200 yards from our front window. This had a damping effect which brought all conversation, reading, and sleeping to a halt. Much of the attitude and somewhat remoteness of the people were the same as in Cahuita, but with a different flavour.
Redeeming features in this group of islands were stunning beaches, good birds, fish and mangroves. Plunked in the middle of one island is one of the BEST Thai restaurants we have been to. 13 of us went over at night in a 25 foot open launch (standard issue - no lights, no lifejackets), hiked up the hill into the darkness of a jungle trail (our group lit with one flashlight, one penlight and several cell phone lights) - to emerge after about 1.5 kilometers at the restaurant - a private house of a Thai woman and son, who host, take orders, cook and clean up. Tables in open air teak verandas looking out through the inky palm fringe to the distant lights. Choruses of deep-throated frogs serenaded us as we dined in the soft night air.
This was a highpoint - but we were glad to move on to week three of language school in the central highlands of Boquete, Panama.
Boat trip to Bocas (including kitchen sink)
Red mangroves on the approach to Bocas. These marvelous plants are among the best natural shoreline protection from tidal waves and hurricanes.
Bocas del Toro from the water
A government building in Bocas as we walked down the main street to our school
We had a salsa dancing lesson at one bar on a small island. But dancing quickly gave way refreshments at the bar. I believe Janet is here explaining to our dancing instructor (in Spanish) the cultural importance of rum for Newfoundlanders.Sunday, November 8, 2009
Crossing into Panama
As part of the 3 week language school, we travelled by local public bus to the Caribbean coast of Costa Rica, along that coast to the border town of Sixaola, then to the frontier with Panama. We had one bus from Turrialba to Siquirres in CR, then another bus to Limon and a third to Sixaola. We were a party of four - Janet, me, our teacher (Eli) and another student Vienna. At the border, the bus pulled into a gravel yard and we all trooped off, grabbed our baggage from under the bus, and walked up over an old weathered approach ramp to an abandoned railroad bridge which links the two countries.
On the CR side there was a small building with a glass window booth. All passengers with all their gear lined up single file to have our passports stamped to exit Costa Rica. Then we humped our bags and packs over a steel trestle bridge about 300 m long. Looking through gaps between the old rail ties we stared down 100 feet to a muddy crocodile-infested river. Thick rough-sawn planks of tropical hardwood were laid down on either side of the unused steel rails to serve as walkways. The boards were not all nailed down; some jumped and shifted as you walked on them adding to the excitement of the crossing. Midway across the bridge was a bored-looking Panamanian soldier in full camoflage fatigues and assault rifle. This marks the mid-point of the river and our first welcome to Panama. The whole trek reminded me of a tense prisoner exchange. At any moment, we expected barked orders over a loudspeaker to freeze, and the rattle of automatic weapons from nervous senties.
We made it to the other side with no shots fired, to a cluster of single storey unmarked buildings with peeling paint and rusty corrugated metal roofs - immigration offices to enter Panama. We lined up behind a cluster of British backpackers with mountainous expedition packs crammed to bursting. Soon we were in front of another glass window and low, half-moon opening (just like the old movie theater ticket booths). Slide through your passport, and bend down to mutter through into the dimly interior. Only to be told that we needed a $5 Tourist Card to enter Panama; just go down to the NEXT window, get it and return (to the line). We grab your packs, shuffle 50 feet along to another theatre ticket window. Slide passport through, bend and mutter. With a pad of cards and carbon paper, the woman leisurely writes out the card by hand, then back come the papers through the half moon. Shuffle back to the first window, slide passports AND tourist card through slot, bend, mutter, wait. Then we are done.
Meanwhile, taxi drivers (we think) are hovering in the hubbub to entice us to use them. Eli had engaged one of them, and when we turned around, our packs were gone! But only whisked away to the pickup truck that commonly serve as taxis. In we all crowded and off we went for an hour long taxi ride to the boat dock to take us and our pile of baggage for the 45 min to Bocas del Toro.
We were in Panama for sure.
Frontier sign on CR side of the bridge
Janet part way across. Soldier is up ahead on left.
On the CR side there was a small building with a glass window booth. All passengers with all their gear lined up single file to have our passports stamped to exit Costa Rica. Then we humped our bags and packs over a steel trestle bridge about 300 m long. Looking through gaps between the old rail ties we stared down 100 feet to a muddy crocodile-infested river. Thick rough-sawn planks of tropical hardwood were laid down on either side of the unused steel rails to serve as walkways. The boards were not all nailed down; some jumped and shifted as you walked on them adding to the excitement of the crossing. Midway across the bridge was a bored-looking Panamanian soldier in full camoflage fatigues and assault rifle. This marks the mid-point of the river and our first welcome to Panama. The whole trek reminded me of a tense prisoner exchange. At any moment, we expected barked orders over a loudspeaker to freeze, and the rattle of automatic weapons from nervous senties.
We made it to the other side with no shots fired, to a cluster of single storey unmarked buildings with peeling paint and rusty corrugated metal roofs - immigration offices to enter Panama. We lined up behind a cluster of British backpackers with mountainous expedition packs crammed to bursting. Soon we were in front of another glass window and low, half-moon opening (just like the old movie theater ticket booths). Slide through your passport, and bend down to mutter through into the dimly interior. Only to be told that we needed a $5 Tourist Card to enter Panama; just go down to the NEXT window, get it and return (to the line). We grab your packs, shuffle 50 feet along to another theatre ticket window. Slide passport through, bend and mutter. With a pad of cards and carbon paper, the woman leisurely writes out the card by hand, then back come the papers through the half moon. Shuffle back to the first window, slide passports AND tourist card through slot, bend, mutter, wait. Then we are done.
Meanwhile, taxi drivers (we think) are hovering in the hubbub to entice us to use them. Eli had engaged one of them, and when we turned around, our packs were gone! But only whisked away to the pickup truck that commonly serve as taxis. In we all crowded and off we went for an hour long taxi ride to the boat dock to take us and our pile of baggage for the 45 min to Bocas del Toro.
We were in Panama for sure.
Frontier sign on CR side of the bridge
Janet part way across. Soldier is up ahead on left.
Travelling language school - October
Hello one and all. We were out of touch and private internet connection for October since we enrolled in a three week travelling Spanish school "Spanish by the River", based in Turrialba, CR . We spent one week in Turrialba, then one week in Bocas del Toro on Panama Caribbean coast, then our last week in Boquete, in western highlands of Panama. Our main teacher, Eli Rodrigues, was our "chaperone" during the whole trip, travelling on local buses with us, and navigating the labyrinth of customs and immigration crossing into Panama. We had a home stay in Turrialba, a school apartment in Bocas and a partial home stay in Boquete. The home stays are good once to get a feel for local family living, but we preferred to be in our own space, to cook healthier food and have more time for focusing on Spanish.
Some separate posts to follow about the Panama and the frontier crossings.
We are now settled for a time in a rented house in Grecia, CR. It has (somewhat intermittent) internet, and we are gradually getting caught up on emails and blog posting.
Some separate posts to follow about the Panama and the frontier crossings.
We are now settled for a time in a rented house in Grecia, CR. It has (somewhat intermittent) internet, and we are gradually getting caught up on emails and blog posting.
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Wealth
A modern fable, copied from "We Love Costa Rica.com website":
- - -
A vacationing American businessman was standing on the pier of a quaint coastalfishing village on the Pacific coast of Costa Rica. A small boat with just one fisherman pulled into the dock. Inside the small boatwas a large yellowfin tuna and a few other fish. The American complimented the Costa Rican on the quality of his fish.
"How long did it take you to catch them?" the American casually asked.
"Oh, a few hours," the Costa Rican replied.
"Why don't you stay out longer and catch more fish?" the American businessman then asked.
The Tico warmly replied, "With this I have plenty to support my family's needs."
The businessman then became serious, "But what do you do with the rest of your time?"
Responding with a smile, the Costa Rican fisherman answered, "I sleep late, play with my children, watch soccer games, and take siestas with my wife. Sometimes in the evenings I take a stroll into the village to see my friends, play the guitar, sing a few songs..."
The American businessman impatiently interrupted, "Look, I have an MBA from Harvard, and I can help you to be way more profitable. You can start by fishing several hours longer every day. You can then sell the extra fish you catch. With the extra money, you can buy a bigger boat. With the additional income that larger boat will bring, you can then buy a second boat, a third one, and so on, until you have an entire fleet of fishing boats. Then, instead of selling your catch to a middleman you'll be able to sell your fish directly to the processor, or maybe even open your own cannery. Eventually, you could control the product, processing and distribution. You could leave this tiny coastal village and move to San José, or possibly even LA or NewYork City, where you could even further expand your enterprise."
Having never thought of such things, the Costa Rican fisherman asked, "But how long will all this take?"
After a rapid mental calculation, the businessman pronounced, "Probably about15-20 years, maybe less if you work really hard."
"And then what, señor?" asked the fisherman.
"Why, that's the best part!" answered the businessman with a laugh. "When the time is right, you would sell your company stock to the public and become very rich. You would make millions!"
"Millions? Really? What would I do with all that money?" asked the fisherman indisbelief.
The businessman boasted, "Then you could happily retire with all the money you've made. You could move to a quaint coastal fishing village where you could sleep late, play with your grandchildren, watch soccer games, take siestas withyour wife, and stroll to the village in the evenings where you could play the guitarand sing with your friends all you want."
- - -
I think the moral of the story written by goodness-knows-who is: Know what really matters in life, and you may find that it is already much closer than you think.
- - -
A vacationing American businessman was standing on the pier of a quaint coastalfishing village on the Pacific coast of Costa Rica. A small boat with just one fisherman pulled into the dock. Inside the small boatwas a large yellowfin tuna and a few other fish. The American complimented the Costa Rican on the quality of his fish.
"How long did it take you to catch them?" the American casually asked.
"Oh, a few hours," the Costa Rican replied.
"Why don't you stay out longer and catch more fish?" the American businessman then asked.
The Tico warmly replied, "With this I have plenty to support my family's needs."
The businessman then became serious, "But what do you do with the rest of your time?"
Responding with a smile, the Costa Rican fisherman answered, "I sleep late, play with my children, watch soccer games, and take siestas with my wife. Sometimes in the evenings I take a stroll into the village to see my friends, play the guitar, sing a few songs..."
The American businessman impatiently interrupted, "Look, I have an MBA from Harvard, and I can help you to be way more profitable. You can start by fishing several hours longer every day. You can then sell the extra fish you catch. With the extra money, you can buy a bigger boat. With the additional income that larger boat will bring, you can then buy a second boat, a third one, and so on, until you have an entire fleet of fishing boats. Then, instead of selling your catch to a middleman you'll be able to sell your fish directly to the processor, or maybe even open your own cannery. Eventually, you could control the product, processing and distribution. You could leave this tiny coastal village and move to San José, or possibly even LA or NewYork City, where you could even further expand your enterprise."
Having never thought of such things, the Costa Rican fisherman asked, "But how long will all this take?"
After a rapid mental calculation, the businessman pronounced, "Probably about15-20 years, maybe less if you work really hard."
"And then what, señor?" asked the fisherman.
"Why, that's the best part!" answered the businessman with a laugh. "When the time is right, you would sell your company stock to the public and become very rich. You would make millions!"
"Millions? Really? What would I do with all that money?" asked the fisherman indisbelief.
The businessman boasted, "Then you could happily retire with all the money you've made. You could move to a quaint coastal fishing village where you could sleep late, play with your grandchildren, watch soccer games, take siestas withyour wife, and stroll to the village in the evenings where you could play the guitarand sing with your friends all you want."
- - -
I think the moral of the story written by goodness-knows-who is: Know what really matters in life, and you may find that it is already much closer than you think.
Friday, October 2, 2009
Grecia - Scott's editorial
We stayed this last week in the coffee-carpeted hills above the town of Grecia ("Greece") on the flanks of the mighty Poas Volcano, in the western central valley. Just over the ridge above us, the volcano is restless - hissing steam and blowing dust and ash several hundred feet in the air. Temperatures on the crater floor have risen to 369C. Above 264C, sulfur which coats the dust and ash, burns. Each morning, before the day's breezes disperse them, we taste the thin acrid smell of heavier-than-air sulfur dioxide, drifting down through the lush forest canopy from the summit - a smell of caged, blind wrath.
Grecia is a thriving and congested agricultural and market town just north of the highway (Interamericana). Due to its picturesque setting, nice climate and proximity to the main airport, this town appears to be a San Jose slick-suburb-in-training and is on the gringo radar screen. Some slickness has rubbed off - we saw our first low-profile tires here, we saw a Mazda Miata (total madness in a country of chin-deep potholes), a Hummer has been sighted (we did not see it personally; perhaps it has been shot since...) - you get the picture (think Upper Mission, Kelowna). Eyesores symptomatic of wealth and status disease, and the sad striving to be North American. Witness the transformative power of TV ads on people's behaviour - a nearly uniform effect to buy and consume goods and services, and to emulate those who buy and consume the most (United States of America). We are striving to avoid this commercial, status-climbing bustle for mental health.
View from our bed and breakfast - Mango Valley.
On a walk we encountered piles of stacked sawn volcanic rock (for geo-types: a lithic ash-fall tuff). These slabs are used for sidewalk pavers in town.
A wasp's nest; tucked into a vertical bank; about 8" across. We did not knock at the door.
Ever on the look out for wonders of natural erosion, we spied these gullies carved in volcanic clayey soil on the sides of a road, due to torrential rain and flashy runoff. Note the sculpted fluted channel - these are the same same pothole erosional shapes carved by steep mountain streams in rock. Nature as artist displays equal elegance in all media.
Note, the cut banks are commonly vertical; no set back; and yes - they do fail.
Agave cactus with flowering stalk over 20 feet high.
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Cahuita
For a few days of total change of pace, we took a side trip to Cahuita on the southern Pacific coast. Our impression was that the farther east you go, the hotter, stickier, poorer and more run down is the country. Limon I'm afraid to say looked simply like a uninviting slum. A rattling bus ride to Cahuita brought us to a small coastal village with a sleepy, trashy, overgrown feel. People don't meet your eye; shopkeepers look right through you.
Janet and new friend Verde at the Kelly Creek Lodge. This "Mealy Parrot" talked a lot - "hola" "hello" "I'm a parrot" and laughed just like Janet (and Eloise, Janet's mother...). Verde is jealously wary and agressive to any man, but eventually took some scrambled egg from my fingertips. That was close enough to that beak...
Roberto (L) and girlfriend (R) caimans in stagnant water lagoon (Kelly Creek) right next to our hotel. Roberto came to shore when called by Andreas, for a meal of raw chicken. Swimming not recommended.
A great small hotel at Kelly Creek - all dark hardwood, louvres, ceiling fans and swampy jungle noises. Hoteliers Andreas (from Madrid) and Marie-Claude (from France) served a stunning paella with homemade sangria that, like this hotel, was a oasis of exotic culture amidst this exotic Caribbean tropical rainforest.
Cahuita: great animals, good snorkling, hot sticky weather, torturous non-stop reggae music (so mind-numbingly everpresent as to warrant including in a CIA psychological warfare manual) and two legged snakes (bare-footed Rasta-men with no shirts, dreadlocks in green, yellow and red knit hair bags, wrap-around sunglasses and a look like they would steal their mother's wedding ring).
Cahuita village sign - the "In One Other Tours", "Hot Water Fans" and "Bid Watching" sound interesting
Abandoned truck - left for 9 years. The jungle reclaims all.
Janet and new friend Verde at the Kelly Creek Lodge. This "Mealy Parrot" talked a lot - "hola" "hello" "I'm a parrot" and laughed just like Janet (and Eloise, Janet's mother...). Verde is jealously wary and agressive to any man, but eventually took some scrambled egg from my fingertips. That was close enough to that beak... 
Janet and Verde look from our room porch to the main building and restaurant at Kelly Creek Lodge
Night time means mosquito nets in the coastal tropics. This hotel was right out of Casablanca.
Iguana at Kelly Creek. Coming for fruit left in trees.
Roberto (L) and girlfriend (R) caimans in stagnant water lagoon (Kelly Creek) right next to our hotel. Roberto came to shore when called by Andreas, for a meal of raw chicken. Swimming not recommended.
Tangle of mangrove swamp on trail in Cahuita National Park.
Howler monkey in Cahuita NP
White faced monkey, Cahuita NP. These guys can be agressive and jump on your back to get food in your backpack.
Young white-faced monkeys clearly saying, "Hey wadda ya wanna do now?", just like human kids.
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