“I kept having this dream that a ghost was leaning over the bed, staring at me.”
Cool! Why can’t I ever have dreams like that?
“Well, did you talk to him?”
“No. I mean, he’d probably just tell me about some kids trapped in a burning barn in the eighteenth century, and there’s really nothing I could do about that. And besides, I’m sure the ghost would have spoken Spanish anyway. But it was still creepy.”
Looking back at the pictures, she may have actually been on to something in that cabin...
We sat outside under our little porch roof, watching the rain and listening to the monkeys. We debated what we’d do for a while, then settled on a plan. Since the clouds had ruined any chance of seeing the Arenal volcano cone, we’d drive further east, towards Volcán Poás – a destination that wasn’t really listed in any of our tour books.
After breakfast, the rain slowed, then finally stopped. Driving toward the town of La Fortuna, we saw a small, hand painted sign that said, “Rent Horseback – This Way”
Rent Horseback? ¡Sí! Let’s do it!
Is This the Right Way to 'Rent Horseback'?
We followed a bumpy dirt road past many run down shacks and a small, open air school. Finally we pulled up the driveway where horsebacks were for rent.
With some gesturing and pantomime, we explained to the woman that met our car what we wanted. She went inside, then came back out a few minutes later with her young daughter. The girl collected three thin horses from the corral, and gestured to me to climb aboard.
I’m not really a fan of horses. The one time I’d tried horseback riding was a complete disaster, because unlike motorcycles, these beasts have a mind of their own. My previous horseback ride ended with the horse unleashing a HUGE firehose from his horse firehose storage area, then proceeding to water my shoes. It was then that the phrase ‘Piss like a race horse” finally became clear to me. It was also then that I decided to stick with vehicles with more than one horsepower.
But Fiona really wanted to try horseback renting, so I swallowed my fears and went with it. After all, she’s more than a good sport about all the stupid shit I put her through.
So I climbed aboard the horse, named ‘Colorado’ and waited. Fiona swung up in the saddle of her horse, named ‘Cielo’ with a whoop! Mariela, our sixteen year old guide, climbed aboard her own horse and motioned for us to follow. I kicked Colorado gently a few times, and he grudgingly started to plod after Mariela. When Colorado and Cielo caught up to Mariela, she leaned over to us and said “Habla Español?”
With a shrug, I replied, “Un poquito.”
She smiled, “OK, I will speak English then.” Her English, just like nearly everyone we’d met so far, was perfect.
We rode through her small town, many houses simply constructed of corrugated tin and old scraps of wood. Everyone in the tiny town waved at Mariela, it was clear that her bright face and huge smile made her the town sweetheart. It also became clear that every local boy had his eye on her, a fact that she didn't seem aware of.
My horse, Colorado, seemed to have only one thing on his mind, and that was to bite Mariela’s horse. Cielo, Fiona’s trusty steed had the same thing in mind, passing Mariela’s horse then rearing up and trying to kick it. There was some serious horse hatred in our little posse. Pretty soon Frenchy and Colorado were in the lead, followed by Fiona and Cielo, with Mariela far behind us.
I found that if I kicked Colorado enough, he’d pick up some speed. I just kept tapping him with my heels, and pretty soon we were flat out galloping. It was all I could do to hold on to this wild stallion as it broke for the hills. I’m positive the damn animal knew I had no business being on his back, and was trying to throw me much like the bulls in Brasilito threw their riders. But I held on, eventually getting the horse to stop.
As soon as we stopped, my racehorse did what racehorses do best, but at least this time I was safely out of harm’s way on his back. Mariela rode safely behind our mean horses, and, being a sixteen year old, talked on her cell phone for almost the whole ride.
Our small group trotted up some dirt roads to a ‘Horse Parking Lot.’ Mariela tied our horses to a post, then led us down a small path to an entrance gate. At that gate she paid a small fee, then we crossed a bridge. In front of us was a huge waterfall.
We took a few pictures of the spectacular cascade from the observation deck, then Mariela gestured to a stairway. “It’s six hundred meters down,” was all she said. Well, if it’s six hundred meters down, that means its twelve thousand back up, right? Right. Fiona and I talked about it. Since this was a place that we doubt we’d ever return, we decided to take the stairs anyway. Mariela stoically led the way.
The view from the bottom was worth it. Not only for the scenery, but for the fact that some knuckleheads were swimming in the pool, trying to get close to the onslaught of falling water. I watched, hoping to see at least one of the idiots get drawn under the waterfall, but the current was too strong, and the knuckleheads weren’t able to drown in front of us.
We started climbing back up. I figured Mariela, being used to making this climb would just scamper to the top while Fiona and I were left far behind, regretting every meal and every beer we’d had in Costa Rica so far. Halfway up, we all stopped to take a break, and Mariela was just as winded as we were. It was a great victory for the old folks!
The return trip was just as much fun. I spurred Colorado to great speeds again, and nearly fell off about five times. It didn’t matter, since we were so far ahead nobody would have seen it. I think Colorado was glad for the exercise. Better him than me.
We trotted back to the ranch three hours later, and that was when I realized we had a problem.
We’d never discussed price.
Great. After dismounting, we just kind of stood there staring at each other. I braced for the worst, but nothing happened. Finally, Fiona asked Mariela how much our adventure cost.
“Well, my Mom said $30.”
“$30 each?”
Shyly, she replied, “No, just $30.”
Finally, a bargain in Costa Rica! We gave little Mariela, the sweetheart of La Fortuna, the biggest tip she’s ever received. I’m sure she’ll have to put the money towards her cell phone bill, but it was all worth it.
The horseback rental put us behind schedule, but we decided that since Arenal had never revealed itself to us, we’d still head for the other volcano anyway.
Arenal Stayed Hidden in the Clouds.
Two hours later, we were lost, low on gas, it was raining, getting dark, and the towns - the few little towns we passed looked… well… they looked dangerous. In one small town, we took a sharp left and began climbing. The road, a single rutted asphalt ribbon with no pained lines to mark the edges, twisted, curved and turned every which way. Deep, open drainage ditches carrying rainwater down the mountainside lined both sides of the tiny road. One wrong move and we’d either fall into a ditch and likely drown, or off a mountain. The rain and fog didn’t help, nor did the trailer trucks screaming down the mountain, taking up the whole road with each turn.
One of us enjoyed the drive much less than the other. This uneasiness contributed to the tension. It’s funny, but sometimes an adventure doesn’t seem to be an adventure when you are actually having it.
Halfway up this mountain road, we spied an oasis. The place was called The Peace Lodge, and it was a beautiful sight to behold for a couple of tense and tired travelers. The lobby had a gigantic fireplace, surrounded by stone and wood pillars. Though it looked extremely expensive, it didn’t matter, the place was magnificent.
It was also completely sold out.
The clerk recommended another place called the Hotel Poás Volcano Lodge, four miles up the road. I asked if he thought they’d have vacancy. He shrugged. “Eh. Maybe. Maybe not.”
Great
A few wrong turns later, we stumbled onto a gravel road that led to the Hotel Poás. It looked more like a stone farmhouse than a lodge. A small stone path led to a gigantic wooden door, which creaked open as we stepped inside this stone fortress. (Did I make the point that the place was made of stone?)
“Yes, we have one room…”
“We’ll take it!”
“… but it’s a shared bathroom….”
“We’ll take it!”
“… and dinner, the cut-off time for dinner…
“WE WILL TAKE IT!”
The clerk led us through a sitting room, filled with stuffy, older British people sitting around the coolest recessed fireplace I have ever seen. As we walked through, I swear I heard someone ask, “Pardon me, would you have any Grey Poupon?” followed by, “Why, yes, old chap. Dr. Livingstone, I presume.” As we walked through, all conversation stopped, and everyone just stared at us.
But still, even though something had happened to the cut off time for dinner, and we’d have to share a bathroom with a bunch of crusty old Limeys, it didn’t matter. We had a place to stay.
I asked where we could find dinner, and the clerk answered, “There are two restaurants in town, a Mexican one and a French one.” Wait a minute, what? This day couldn’t get any more surreal. We’d climbed a mountain road in the rain and fog, then found a hidden British stronghold in the middle of Costa Rica at night, and now we were told there was a French restaurant in town? It just couldn’t get any weirder.
Wrong again.
The French restaurant, Colbert’s, was a short drive from the hotel. Monsieur Colbert himself greeted us at the door. Twelve tables were set but empty in the large restaurant. It was freezing inside. Monsieur Colbert told us to pick any table we wanted, except for the one by the fire, because it was reserved. We sat as close to the fire as we could, freezing our asses off, and ordered delicious French food.
Monsieur Colbert attended one of the finest French culinary schools, then, for a reason known only to him, he fled France for Costa Rica, opening his namesake restaurant. Colbert's was open seven days a week, and apparently staffed only by Monsieur Colbert alone.
Naturally, the crusty Brits from the hotel showed up a few minutes later to claim the reserved table. They openly stared at us until finally one of the women asked our story. We told them about driving up the mountain road at night, not packing jackets or nice clothes, and missing out on seeing Arenal thanks to the clouds. We sat shivering in the cold restaurant as we recounted our day’s travels.
The table visibly softened at our sad tale, and one of the women let Fiona borrow her jacket, and we toasted each other before our meals ended. For a bunch of crusty English old farts, they weren’t half bad.
We piled on the bed every blanket we could beg, borrow or steal, and, ghosts or not, we soon were sound asleep, content with the knowledge that there was just ONE MORE POST to write about this trip
¡Hasta mañana mis amigos!
