Biking Costa Rica

by Lance Frasier --- The Herald Journal of Logan, Utah

Orosi, Costa Rica -- We had been in this tropical
paradise four days before we found the real Costa Rica.

After biking down 10,000-foot Irazœ Volcano and rafting
the world-class Pacuare River, my wife and I had
experienced Costa Rica's adventurous side. But until we
rode into the lovely coffee-farming town of Orosi, we
hadn't seen the country from a less touristy point of
view.

Monique and I chose Costa Rica to celebrate our 10th
anniversary because it seemed to have everything:
volcanoes, inviting beaches, rivers, exotic wildlife,
lush rain forest and a culture that was entirely new to
us. Since we had never been to Central America, we
signed up with a Utah company that offered multi-sport
tours there, joining 13 other travelers and two guides.
Of adventure we found no shortage -- especially on the
little country's racetrack highways -- but for
relaxation, even the beach paled in comparison to Orosi.

We entered Orosi by pushing our bikes across the Orosi
River on a long, green suspension bridge. At the
entrance to the gently swaying bridge was a sign
reading, No more than 10 people. Nearby the concrete
support pillars of an abandoned, smaller bridge tilted
haphazardly toward the river, victimized, apparently, by
11 walkers.

We had spent most of the afternoon on mountain bikes,
climbing a damnably steep mountain (we dubbed it
"Mountain of Near Death" because on the following day's
itinerary was the Cerro la Muerte, or Mountain of Death)
in a stew of heat and humidity that Cache Valley will
never experience, and were more than ready for a dip in
one of the town's famous thermal hot springs. Alas, they
were closed for the day, so after a tour of Costa Rica's
oldest church -- a solid-looking structure built by
Spaniards in 1743 -- we repaired to the Orosi Lodge for
showers and refreshment.

The views from our balcony were mesmerizing. To the
north, past the verdant valley's coffee fields and quiet
homes, rose Irazœ and Turrialba volcanoes, partially
obscured by the mist. Below the two monoliths lay a
sleepy town; people didn't run, they walked, and always
seemed to have time to chat with a neighbor. To the west
an older woman wearing a white apron swept the sidewalk
in her small front yard as two cats and a dog watched
from a shaded bench.

I was reminded of our river guide's poetic tattoo,
something along the lines of "work hard, play hard."
Costa Ricans also know how to relax well. On a perhaps
related note, they are not particularly strict with
interpretations of time or distance. Earlier that day,
while toiling up Near Death, I had stopped in the shade
to watch a farmer siphon water from a ditch onto his
coffee fields. I asked the man how far it was to Orosi.
He replied, "Diez kilometros," which I interpreted to
mean 10 kilometers. Since the last sign I had seen had
stated it was 23 kilometers to Orosi, I calculated that
I was more than halfway there.

An hour later, expecting to find the town around the
next corner, I saw another sign: Orosi, 13 kilometers.

The trip started, for me at least, on a
less-than-auspicious note. The first morning we bussed
up Irazœ Volcano for a peek into the cauldron, which
last erupted in 1963 and was overdue to blow again. The
crater was filled with lime-green rainwater and looked
harmless.

From Irazœ we biked down a stone-littered and dusty jeep
road. I was on a rental, a bald-tired, harsh-riding
Airborne Liberator for which I was quickly forming a
strong dislike. That sentiment was not improved after
lunch when, on a twisting downhill section of pavement,
I encountered a car traveling uphill that swung wide
through a turn. I swung abruptly outward, locked the
brakes and skidded around until I was nearly pointed in
the right direction. That was when my back tire blew,
flinging me rolling across the pavement into a barbwire
fence.

Which brings up an interesting aspect of Costa Rican
culture that seems opposed to their laid-back nature --
these people drive like maniacs. Our first hint came
when our lovable driver, Harry, blew past a red,
octagonal sign on Day 1. As we exchanged looks in the
back of the bus, someone asked, "Doesn't 'Alto' mean
stop?"

It does, but down here drivers make their own rules. We
saw people attempt passes on blind uphill corners in
bumper-to-bumper traffic. Most succeeded, although
tire-screeching swerves were commonplace. Our local
guide theorized that Costa Ricans, unlike Americans, go
about expecting the occasional child, cow or stray dog
(of which there are thousands) to wander onto the road,
and with their racer's mentality of constant readiness
are actually superior drivers. He urged us to relax,
since the natives are accustomed to cyclists on the
narrow roads and are careful to avoid them.

The next night a truck swung into another guide and sent
him flying, and someone else later told me that traffic
accidents are the leading cause of death in Costa Rica.

Other than the roads, it seemed to be a safe country,
although nearly every home and business had bars over
its windows and/or some kind of barbwire barrier.
Sandwiched between Nicaragua and Panama, Costa Rica has
managed to maintain an agriculture-and-tourism economy,
with plenty of casinos, hotels and restaurants. The best
thing about those restaurants was their lack of walls;
only once during our stay did we eat indoors.

The physical damage from my wreck was not extensive -- a
slightly sprained wrist and a sampling of road rash --
but my enthusiasm for screaming downhills in traffic was
temporarily diminished. I rode in the van for the last
couple of miles to Turrialtico Lodge, another
beautifully landscaped resort that is a launching pad
for rafting on the Pacuare and Reventaz—n rivers.

The next day we made a run on the Pacuare. It was not
the biggest or nastiest river around -- most of the
rapids were mild class 3's -- but the scenery was
unbeatable. Egrets, vultures and toucans cruised the
riverside between towering walls of green brightened by
the orange and vermilion blossoms of the poro tree. Many
of the gigantic trees were hosts to dangling vines,
separate plants that had been dropped as seeds onto the
branches and had grown downward from there, and
100-foot-high waterfalls refreshed us every few
kilometers. Indigenous families still live in primitive
conditions near the river, coming down for water or to
fish. One of our guides, in fact, threw out a hand-held
line baited with bread and caught a fish that he told us
was a vegetarian piranha, although it looked more like a
trout.

Near the end of the day we floated under a tall railroad
trestle that a dozen or so boys had climbed. We were
surprised to see a teenager jump into the river from the
tracks, some 25 feet above the water, and flabbergasted
to see a boy who looked about 6 (we later found out he
was 12) launch himself from the very top of the rusty
trestle and sail 60 feet into the middle of the channel.
Both hopped into our raft and picked up oars to help
row, hoping to earn tips. Their fearless stunts were
impressive, although clearly dangerous, as several
youngsters had suffered serious injuries there.

Day 3 was the climb to Orosi, and on Day 4 we were on
the bikes again, after a rain delay cut out the
morning's ride. That day's riding was by far the best of
the trip. The dirt road cut down through layers of rain
forest and fields, mist from the rains obscuring nearby
hilltops and quashing all sound. Farmers drove past in
small pickups loaded with Brahma cattle, wondering, no
doubt, how we had come to share their territory. As we
descended we could feel the temperature rising, along
with the humidity.

From partway down Cerro la Muerte we biked all the way
to Quepos, a beach town on the Pacific Ocean. After
ocean kayaking on Day 5, followed by a day of hiking
through Manuel Antonio National Forest to see sloths,
monkeys, iguanas, deer and coatimundi, we just had time
to relax on the beach for a couple of hours before
heading back to San Jose and the airport.

Some say this country's tourism boom has peaked, that
Guatemala, with its cheaper food and hotels and ancient
ruins to boot, is the "new Costa Rica." That may be, but
we found that you can still experience authentic Costa
Rica in places like Orosi.

Just remember to wear a helmet on the way.