Final Days In Central America

We set off from San Jose with a spring in our step, for two different reasons. Gemma was delighted that I had relented, agreeing to wait out the time for our boat by sitting on sun drenched, palm fringed Caribbean beaches. Personally I was really looking forward to getting our next boat, and relieved to be beginning our journey home. Not that I disliked Costa Rica, but with every passing day I am missing home comforts more and more.

As our bus took us through Limon, the town we would be catching our boat from, it was a good opportunity to scout the local area. We knew we'd be coming through laden with our bags and unsure of the safety situation here, so it helps to know what you are getting into. The Lonely Planet was less than complimentary, and in the words of one local resident "it's a shit-hole". We thought that description was unfair. It was a shit-hole with a beautiful cemetery.

Fortunately the bus turned off the main road and began following a twisting jungle road within earshot of the ocean. 60km further on the bus practically emptied when it stopped in Puerto Viejo, an ugly little town famed for drinking, surfing and more drinking. But we'd done our research, and stayed on for a further 6km to be dropped in Punta Uva, a sleepy hamlet just steps from a deserted shoreline.

Our hostel came with a good rating, and we were disappointed. It was a wooden structure, half treehouse, half beachcombers shack set a little way back from the beach in amongst the abundant foliage, where humming birds routinely buzzed the open air lounge and the distinctive call of howler monkeys can be heard from your hammocks. In fact the only downside to this tropical paradise was the weather - pouring rain being the overwhelming feature during our stay.

There wasn't a great deal to do there except while away the hours on the beach, in the hammock, or take a stroll through the jungle to the nearest supermarket. But that suited us just fine. The few attractions that did exist were very expensive, so we treated ourselves to just one.

The Jaguar Rescue Centre, half-way between Punta Uva and Puerto Viejo, was something I had read about before we arrived, so I was determined to go. We caught the morning bus and arrived in time for a guided tour of the centre. Robbie, an English Biologist, greeted us by introducing us to their fine snake collection which included an open fronted exhibit of bright yellow eyelash pit vipers. The snakes here are often bred, sent to a research institute in San Jose where their venom is collected for use in making anti-venom, and then returned to the wild. Apparently San Jose makes so much anti-venom now they are able to export it to several other countries in Latin America.

We were also shown a beautiful Margay which was fed a live mouse (not for the faint hearted) and breakfast time in the toucan cage. The frog pond was fascinating, we were both delighted to finally witness a green tree frog. I take that back, we'd seen thousands, on t-shirts, hats, post-cards, even shot glasses, just no live ones before.

But the exhibit we had really come for was the Howler Monkeys. I knew Gemma was still disappointed that she hadn't been able to interact with them at Arcas, so to get the chance here was fantastic, although I'll admit I juggled with the ethics of such an experience.

Entering the enclosure the monkies seemed a little shy at first, albeit with curiosity of the giants (us) who had just walked into their home. But soon enough they were happily jumping, sitting and swinging about us. One little fellow mistook my arm for a branch and dangled from it by his tail quite happily for a minute, while his friend tried to nibble my Casio watch. Another sat on Gemma's head while a fourth jumped onto her shoulders. I'll admit it, it was a hell of a lot of fun.

In fact it was the opposite of our teaching at Arcas. There they had preached to us the need for minimising human contact, banning talking to, or playing with the animals whilst working in their enclosure. Here, for fifteen minutes we had the opportunity to play with these enchanting animals. The two sites also had a different approach to releasing the animals. At Arcas they would form social groups to be released en-masse, the whole group undergoing to "re-training" together. Here they would take the older monkeys on a jungle walk every afternoon to allow them to interact with the jungle, and the wild monkeys. It was effectively up to each monkey to decide if they wanted to return to the centre or stay with their new friends.

Being no great expert, I couldn't begin to debate which was the better strategy. I can certainly see logic in both. The Arcas ideal makes a lot of sense, as the monkeys are likely to encounter poachers in the wild, so they shouldn't get to used to human contact, having said that the ones which get released here will have no choice but to live next to the humans who have made this coastline home, and I also like the idea of the monkey being free to chose when he wants to stay in the wild, and the chance to join an already established social group must carry some benefits too.

Politics of animal rescue aside, we also got to see lots of sloths up close (both the two toed and three toed variety). The guide asked how you could tell them apart, which saw me lurch dangerously close to a comedy answer (I resisted). One particularly cute sloth got a little camera shy and covered his face with a blanket. It was a pretty wonderful place to visit for a few hours, our last chance to enjoy some of Costa Rico's unique wildlife.

Back at the hostel we made contact, via email, with the port agents. They had copied in several different people, with segments of useful information coming from each: "the boat is due to arrive at 6pm"; "you must be in Limon at midday"; "you need to meet this person"; "he is at this office". All missing the vital information, the address. Whereas in Korea one man took charge and arranged everything, here the old adage about "too many cooks" felt like it was conning true.

Expecting the boat to dock at 6pm, we made our way to Limon on a local, slightly decrepit bus, driving at breakneck speed along the beautiful coastal road. In town we walked to the agency office (I found the way courtesy of google maps) to meet one of our many contacts. He greeted us with the news that the MV Bonavia's docking time had been delayed until midnight, 12 hours away. "Be back in the office by 11pm" he said before shuffling us out of the office, minus our bags.

Eleven hours was a lot of time to spend in Limon, too much. We didn't find it quite as scary as the Lonely Planet had suggested, but by 8pm we had exhausted all possible activities. Lunch and dinner had come and gone, we had wasted a few hours in an internet cafe, and bought a few last minute provisions, so we returned to the office to sit out the last three hours.

But when we returned we discovered the gates had been locked and all the lights were off. Fortunately the night-watchman heard our loud (and possibly uncouth) protestations! He allowed us inside and made a phone call, informing us the boat was now delayed until 4am. It's in the very nature of this kind of travel, so we weren't too disheartened. Instead we fashioned crude makeshift pillows from our belongings and settled down on the tiled floor of the darkened office to steal forty winks.