chapter three
The wonder and the immensity of the drama
unfolding in the universe, is a proof of its reality, and the grasp of man, small though it may appear to be, is a guarantee of his divinity. Stage by stage we slowly make our approach to the goal of conscious and intelligent awareness. Djwhal Khul I stepped out of the plane into a sauna. Within seconds perspiration dribbled down along my spine and between my breasts. Taking slow, searing breaths along with the other passengers, I made my way across the tarmac to the airport.
Eagerly, my eyes roamed out into the immediate environment. The airport complex and surrounding area were nestled in a deep valley which explained the plane’s sharp dive before landing. The terminal and adjacent hangers were unimaginative cement structures bordered by flowering shrubs and a variety of palms. The surrounding terrain was flat, albeit for a very short distance. Rolling hills of emerald and malachite green soon sharpened into the ridges of high mountains encircling the plateau. The colours were spectacular. A vivid spectrum, like loose brushstrokes, stippled the green landscape. The air was sweet and rich with unfamiliar scents; it whispered promises of ample space for the eyes to wander and the soul to fly. Pale and sticky with perspiration, the other passengers and I followed one another through a corridor to the luggage area and then on to the customs counters. One of the attendants stamped my passport after a cursory glance at my picture, which he compared with my face. I thanked him when he passed it back to me. "Con mucho gusto," he replied. It sounded like he’d just had something good to eat. I worried a little about my ignorance of Spanish and counted on help from my knowledge of French. They were similar enough, I surmised. Once past the customs officials, we were assaulted with a barrage of taxi-drivers who literally tried to pry our luggage from our hands. I hung on tight, exclaiming "No, gracias" with a French accent. I pushed through the crowd; space opened up into a lobby where I spied a map of Costa Rica on a far wall. I headed toward it, freed from the jostling. I had absolutely no idea where I was going or how to get there. I dragged my duffle bag across the floor, oblivious to the mayhem behind me. At the wall, I scanned the map until my eyes fell on the word Montezuma. It was written in such small print, it was practically indecipherable. Montezuma? Wasn't he the one who consolidated the Aztec Empire in Mexico? If so, then what was he doing in Costa Rica? Perhaps the villagers were indigenous, perhaps of Aztec descent, although they had certainly strayed far from their homeland. This possibility appealed to me, although I knew they were more probably of Mayan descent. Well, that would be just as interesting, I thought. Montezuma appeared to be a very tiny place, situated at the bottom of a large peninsula on the Pacific coast in the northwest of the country, which meant there would most likely be beaches, another benefit. The map indicated there was only one dirt road leading to it. The less accessible, the fewer tourists there would be, exactly what I was looking for. I decided: Montezuma it would be. I hoisted my bags over my shoulders and headed for the main door. Outside the air was only slightly cooler, until I stepped out of the shade. The breeze was redolent with unknown floral scents, which I may have enjoyed had my breathing not been so laboured again. At the curb, it took me a few minutes to find a taxi-driver who spoke a bit of English. I called out over the throng of Latino drivers who were struggling with excessive amounts of luggage in all shapes and sizes that they were trying to squeeze into the trunks and back seats of cabs. No one paid me any mind until I yelled, as loudly as the hot air in my lungs would allow: "Does anyone speak English, por favor?" Breaking through the congestion, a middle-aged Tico smiled ingratiatingly, flashing several gold teeth as he approached me: "Si, si señorita, ingles, ingles!" Not convinced but willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, I asked him if he knew how to get to Montezuma. In broken English, he mentioned a place called Puntarenas and a launcha, which I presumed meant ferry, as in "launch" a boat. He grabbed my elbow as he hoisted my duffle bag onto his shoulder and lead me back inside to the map on the wall. He beamed as he explained that the launcha crossed over the Gulf of Nicoya to the Nicoya Peninsula on the northwest coast of Costa Rica. Beyond that was the Pacific Ocean. With his index finger, he traced a squiggly blue line from a spot on the map named Paquera to the bottom of the peninsula where he slammed his palm against the wall and exclaimed with great fervour: Montezuma! After much more gesticulation and pointing at the numbers on his watch I finally understood that the launcha launched at mid-afternoon. He assured me, I would have just enough time to get there if I took his cab. If I took his cab was the part he stressed the most: me taxi, me taxi, you no miss launcha, Miss! I hesitated, thinking it would cost a fortune, but then I was made to understand that he would give me a flat rate. It was a two-hour drive but once I'd worked out the exchange in my head, I realized it was affordable after all. I agreed, much to his delight. The drive through the mountains to Puntarenas infused me with a sense of hope. The sun could not have been more brilliant, extending fingers downward to caress and tease a flora grown fantastically huge from its tender affection. And such diversity! All kinds of palms and flowering trees and bushes remained nameless for now, although later I would come to know them I promised myself. Hibiscus in washes of marvellous colours bloomed along the roadsides forming raggedy hedges though some were neatly trimmed. Delicate blossoms of bougainvillea draped heavily over dilapidated structures dressing them in borrowed splendour. Now and then, I spotted red and pink ginger lily, as well as an assortment of splendid bromeliads nested in the crooks of tree branches. As the taxi lurched up long slopes and careened down the other sides, I scanned the sky for swifts and swallows, nun birds and kiskadees. I searched the trees for squirrel monkeys, and perhaps a sloth hanging on the limbs of a cecropia. I saw none of these but felt content in the knowledge that they were out there somewhere. Somewhere in the luxuriant foliage were toucans, hawks and scarlet macaws, not to mention hummingbirds and parrots and tanagers. Somewhere deep in the jungle forest were jaguars, armadillos, and howler monkeys. Somewhere out there was solace. The driver didn't stop once; he only slowed down somewhat when we passed roadside tiendas, tiny clapboard or plywood huts displaying sparse inventories; these were generally surrounded by a smattering of other small tin-roofed structures. Similar in design to the teindas were even smaller shacks called sodas whose fare consisted mostly of prepared foods, snacks and drinks. Some locals milled about these sodas, swigging beers or soft drinks, wiping their forearms across their chins. Others went about their business in sloth motion under the gruelling heat of the early afternoon sun. Children of all ages cavorted between the legs of sun-beaten men or clung to the skirts of their wizened mothers. Campasinos trudged along, loaded down with varieties of bags or boxes or bundled stacks of dried plants. Women, sheltered from the sun under makeshift thatched roofs resting on precarious poles, sold papayas and mangoes and tamarind juice on the roadside. The taxi-driver stopped for none of these, but pressed forward up and down the slopes. We reached the shoreline shortly after turning north off the mountain highway; it had come to an abrupt end as it butted into a roundabout not too distant from the shores of the Gulf of Nicoya. At the shore a bubbling froth gathered between tessellated rocks embedded in black sand while at the horizon the sapphire sky faded imperceptibly into an ethereal shade of blue. The narrow road, long and straight, followed the coastline. I was enthralled, my whole attention focussed on the shifting landscape, my heart desperate to soar. As we progressed through salty sea air, the conglomeration of tin roof shacks thickened until finally we found ourselves in the small town of Puntarenas. It spread from one shore to the other of a narrow peninsula just past an estuary where there was a marina. Shining white yachts and sailboats put the dilapidated fishing boats to shame. The driver slowed down as we drove past the snarl of weather-beaten concrete structures, all of them chipped at the edges. The buildings, whether stores, pensiones or houses, were never more than two stories high; those built of wood were the worst for wear. Peeling paint and rotting boards clung for dear life. Stunted palms suffocated under a thick layer of dust and grime. The streets were filthy. Garbage was strewn everywhere. Broken bottles had been kicked into the angles of gouged walls. Discarded foods, paper and plastic floated in gutters running with brackish water. It was deathly hot and the air was thick and sticky with the smells of rotting fish, decaying fruit and sewage. It reminded me of Brindisi in Italy, another port town considered by many to be the anus of Europe. The analogy worked here too, I thought, only this place didn't have the architectural flavour, or the history. The driver took me straight through to the other side of town where behind the mercado the launcha was docked at a quay jutting into the gulf. It was a two-deck passenger ferry about eighty feet long, old, but presumably seaworthy. The crew hurried through the last of the cargo loading, preparing for departure. After paying the driver, I lugged my bags over to the ticket booth he had pointed out. I instantly became the subject of catcalls and whistles from a line of men and young boys leaning into the wall of the mercado where there was a long, narrow strip of shade. I ignored them. "El barco se va en diez minutos," the girl at the booth informed me. I understood! "Thank God for my French!" I said aloud to myself. The boat was leaving in ten minutes. What perfect timing! As I stuffed the unfamiliar coins back into my money belt, I looked around but I didn't see where I could buy a bottle of juice or water and, afraid to miss the boat, I didn't dare go searching inside the mercado. Besides, I'd have to lug my bags. Also, the prospect of having to spend the night in that infernal port didn't appeal to me in the least. There was no point in risking it so I boarded the boat, refusing the help of a scraggly-looking man who spoke in a language I understood only by means of innuendo. Once on the boat I spotted the ferry's cantina in the lower deck. I purchased a litre of water before I found a place to sit in the shade under a tarpaulin strung up over the front portion of the upper deck. Water had never tasted so delicious! The crew finished their loading and the launcha filled up, mostly with women and children. I didn't see any other foreigners. Everyone stared at me, but once the launcha headed out of the channel into the open bay their curiosity seemed satisfied. With less self-consciousness, I watched barefoot children throw plantano chips and peanuts up into the air over the side of the boat where seagulls nose-dived with astonishing precision, swooping back upwards with their catch. The gulls flew overhead for the length of the crossing, guiding the boat to the other shore. I felt happy for the first time in many, many months. Relaxing on the deck, my eyes soaked up the sea. A salty breeze ran its fingers through my hair. Surrounded by strangers who knew nothing of my origins, my history, my wounds, I felt wholly unencumbered and present in the moment. The spray from the side of the boat seemed, in that instant, to wash away the worst of my trauma. Soon there appeared a smattering of uninhabited islets rising from the sea like a bed of crystals; steep, angular cliffs formed their circumference and their sharp peaks were crowned with buhl, an elaborate inlay resembling malachite. Past these, as the launcha navigated through the inlet currents, I could make out the far coast looming ahead. The sun was soon eclipsed behind a landmass that harvested shadows. The air cooled considerably as the boat approached a small quay tucked into the tiny inlet. A hand-painted wooden sign dangled on rusty chains from the zinc roof of a cement enclosure. It read Paquera Ferry. There was a scurry of activity as the passengers rushed from below to the side of the boat on the upper deck. As the ferry manoeuvred alongside the dock, the more intrepid passengers jumped the span of two or three feet across to land. My heart jumped to my throat. What was their hurry? Didn’t they realize the danger? Only later, on the next trip, did it become apparent that the mad rush was to secure the window seats on the waiting bus. Once seasoned, I too joined in their dangerous custom. This day, however, I waited until the ferry was securely moored before I heaved my baggage over the side. Climbing the rail, I stepped out and planted my feet firmly on the pier. I was the last person off the boat. I made my way through the dark terminal to the metal exit gate and looked out over the unpaved parking lot. The bus, packed with campasinos, had already turned around and was churning dust as it began the steep climb up the hill. It soon disappeared around a curve on the slope. Luckily the taxi driver who made the trip to the launcha twice daily hadn't contracted any passengers. He stood in front of his jeep grinning, knowing my only alternative would be to spend the night at the dock. His was the only vehicle left in the parking area. "Montezuma?" I queried, as the sweat dripped off my chin. "Si, si señorita. Vamanos!" His affirmation was followed by an elated staccato of Spanish as he picked up my luggage and threw it onto the back seat. "No habla Espanol," I said, as I climbed into the front of the jeep. "No problema. Habla Ingles. Poquito," he said, as he squeezed his thumb and index finger together. And it was very little! After a few minutes, we gave up trying to communicate and rode in silence for the remaining two-hour trip to the village that became my home intermittently for the next eighteen months. |