Despues, fuimos a bucear con tubo de respiracion
Trip Start
Aug 08, 2008
1
17
42
Trip End
Oct 12, 2008
Puerto Viejo,
Costa Rica
Sunday, September 14, 2008
The sun beat down on us from a cloudless sky as our motorboat sputtered out into the water. Pretty soon the air reeked of gasoline, and the combination of the smell and the motion was making Alli queasy. Joseph pointed out some unusual waves that were peaking in only one spot, perhaps ten feet across, saying they were caused by a coral reef. I would have guessed sand bars, but I suppose those would have had to have an ultimate cause as well.
From the beach, the ocean had looked pristine and blue. But out past the breakers, where Joseph said the best snorkeling reef was, the surface had an iridescent film spotted with bits of seaweed and clumps of yellowish foam. The water itself was cloudy, and I suspected our propeller (and those of the other boats trolling the area) was either aerating it or kicking up sand, and probably leaking gas or oil, or both. I felt guilty for my part in sullying this paradise.
I went through four masks before I found one that didn't leak and didn't crush my nose into my prefrontal cortex. When I got the right fit, the snorkel leaked, but that's easier to dump out every minute. It was one of those high-tech units with a valve that supposedly lets out any water that splashes in through the top, but actually just lets in water slowly, and lets it in quickly when you try to expel it with a sharp breath.
The boat
I had a flashback to the summer camp I once attended on Catalina Island, to which I brought a brand-new snorkel of the same design that leaked on the first use. It had been the most expensive, and, according to the salesman, the best model at Big 5, but the camp counselors shook their heads knowingly and gave me a rental snorkel made from a single piece of rubber, saying that was the only kind worth having. I had completely forgotten about that, but suddenly the memory was as fresh as if it had happened yesterday.Despite the less-than-ideal conditions, we did manage to see some interesting fish. Our guide identified some parrotfish, something called "chub," and the usual assortment of sea urchins and anemones. I spotted what looked like a skate--a smaller cousin of the stingray, but without a stinger. The most beautiful fish was one Joseph couldn't remember the name of, though; it was a few inches long, and black with blue spots that seemed luminescent. I dove under a few times to get a closer look; the fish were utterly unperturbed by our presence on the surface, but quickly swam away when I started thrashing around below. I followed one fish that was almost two feet from nose to tail all the way around the reef before I ran out of oxygen. The water pressure hurt my ears, but it was worth it; the opacity of the water made every foot count.
We stopped on a tiny beach at the end of a peninsula in Punta Cahuita National Park, and Joseph cut up some pineapple and opened a package of cookies for us.
Alli's working the t-shirt turban
The water there was clear and warm, and there were a few hikers just lounging in the sun. It was so peaceful, I didn't want to leave.We returned to Chile Rojo for lunch, showered back at the hostel, and headed for the bus stop, even though we had a few hours left. On the way to Puerto Viejo, we'd had assigned seats, but a few poor saps had had to stand the whole way; our return tickets listed "unassigned seats," so we wanted to make sure that didn't happen to us. It was a long, hot, sweaty wait, but it was worth it. I claimed the middle seat in the last row, the only one with plenty of leg room (because I had the aisle in front of me.)
As we were leaving the hostel, I overheard some of the girls chatting with the owner. He was from Vermont, so naturally, we were curious how he ended up here. One thing he said that really stuck in my mind was that it was frustrating to try to run a business because "nothing works here." At first we thought he meant the facilities were in poor repair; of our two showers, only one yielded hot water, and there was that kitchen... But it turns out what he really meant was, "no one works here." If something broke, he could hire someone to fix it, but it was hit-or-miss whether the guy would even show up when he said he would, much less whether he would get the job done. People made plans and broke them; reservations and appointments meant little, and the locals operated on what my psych professor termed "polychronic time," meaning if you're not late, they won't be ready for you.
OK, so maybe I don't want to live here. But it's been a great visit all the same.
When we got back to the home base, the new batch of volunteers had arrived. There are four men and four women, all from a software company in Toronto, and they're only staying a week. Most of them seem pretty nice, but there's definitely a difference between doing something like this of your own volition, and doing it as a corporate retreat. One of the women was talking about how awful the food was at their last company outing; apparently, they neglected to bring drawn butter with the lobster. When she asked for some, they brought her garlic butter, which she rejected, then they brought her plain butter, but it wasn't melted, and what was she supposed to do with that?
It's a good thing my mom was wrong about my eyeballs getting stuck in the back of my head.
