| Costa
Rica -- Certain death lies only a few meters to our left.
Curled high upon a tree branch above the dark rain forest floor,
a golden eyelash viper (Bothriechis schegeli) watches us impassively.
A sunbeam slices through the foliage and illuminates its bright
color.
"I wouldn't get too close to that one," warns Patricia Rojas,
our naturalist guide. We ignore her and lean farther out of
our aerial car to get a closer look at the brilliant, lemon-yellow
snake. We're so near I can see the distinctive ridges above
its eyes that give it its common name.
"The viper you're looking at so closely is especially deadly--and
I'm not carrying anti-venom." That remark pulls us back into
our seats. The snake seems to grin at our sudden respect.
That we can even see the rare reptile in the wild is amazing.
We are in an open gondola, suspended above a Costa Rican rainforest,
experiencing the lush green jungle canopy--from a monkey's-eye
view. The modified ski lift, called the Aerial Tram, travels
slowly at various levels through the jungle's trees. Hummingbirds
and butterflies of amazing colors fly only inches away, while
a jade tree towers over us.
"This is the only place in the world to view one of the most
complex communities on the planet," claims Dr. Donald Perry,
the American inventor of the Aerial Tram and an early pioneer
in tropical rainforest canopy studies. We talk in an outdoor
dining area, drinking rich Costa Rican coffee, the smell of
which mingles with the heavy scents of the forest's flowers.
"It's urgent that people see the rainforest up close in order
to appreciate its importance," he explains. "This is not an
'eco-tourism' attraction as much as an 'eco-preservation' project."
Dr. Perry believes that, with more travelers seeking vacations
that include outdoor adventure, tourism and the environment
have become symbiotic, especially here. Low costs and proximity
to the U.S. make Costa Rica Central America's most popular tourist
destination. But what attract the "ecologically aware" are the
country's progressive policies toward preserving nature. "Ticos,"
as Costa Ricans call themselves, have set aside more than 10%
of their land as national parks and protected areas.
A few days later I join another group of tourists for a total
immersion in nature--and water--as I head for a wild ride down
the Pacuare river in the remote and protected Talamanca Mountains.
Our mini-bus strains uphill through the cloud-shrouded Braulio
Carrillo national forest, a sprawling nature preserve that bridges
the Pacific and Caribbean halves of the country, across the
mountainous Continental Divide.
Two hours later, on the other side, we pile out of our bus
and into a rugged, mud-splattered, four-wheel drive vehicle.
Down a precarious road, hacked out of the jungle, we drive as
near as we can get to the river. Then we hike the last two hundred
meters downhill, past enough colorful heliconia flowers to stock
an expensive florist. The rainforest here is thick, pungent,
and alive with sounds. It speaks its own language--lyrical but
also a little dangerous.
At bottom of a ravine, we don helmets and yellow life jackets
and push off into the Rio Pacuare. The raft in front of me is
sucked into the thick misty shadows ahead and its occupants'
screams echo up the steep verdant walls of jungle on either
side. Michi, our guide, looks at us and smiles with anticipation.
Suddenly, our bright orange raft follows theirs, tossing and
twisting in the rushing water as we paddle furiously in the
rain-swollen rapids. At the crest of a big wave, I'm startled
by a face peering out at me from the forest. Before I can react
the raft slides down into the swirling water below and, just
as suddenly, we emerge from our first rapids triumphant, everyone
whooping in excitement.
We are still cheering our success when the owner of the face
in the forest and a companion--two indigenous Chirripo Indians--come
out of the jungle and hail our rubber boat. Dressed in ragged
clothes, the father holds a small carbine rifle and his son
stands shyly behind him. Michi speaks to them in Spanish and
offers part of our lunch, which he digs out of waterproof containers.
Soon we wave good-bye, and again the water swirls us away.
Although the Pacuare is not Costa Rica's most technically
difficult white-water rafting river (it has 3 class IV rapids,)
it may be the most spectacular. Where the river slows, we drift
along and listen to a cacophony of jungle noises. Monkeys scamper
in the tree tops, sloths hang on branches, blue morpho butterflies
flutter by, and bright colored birds fly up when startled. Overhead,
black vultures circle in anticipation.
"Are they waiting for us?" I ask.
"Nothing in nature goes unused," Michi replies. Well said
for someone who claims to have learned English from watching
MTV.
Approaching a deep gorge, he points out that there's a growing
controversy about how the Pacuare itself should be used. A giant
dam was proposed for this location, one which would flood the
valley and destroy the rainforest through which we just came.
The rafting companies, whose livelihoods depend on the river,
fought back by floating willing tourists and activists into
the area to stop the rock blasting.
"Pressure both here and abroad succeeded in delaying the dam,"
Mike Kaye tells me from his office in the country's capital,
San Jose. Mike runs a tour company that specializes in adventure
travel. He originally came to Costa Rica in 1978 from the U.S.,
via El Salvador, and is an outspoken critic on environmental
issues. "But now, casual and organized deforestation is occurring
higher up in the mountains. The watershed drains too quickly
and silt has begun to wash down. Although that now makes the
dam unfeasible, it cuts down our running season because of low
water."
Mike Kaye's tour operation, along with others, has provided
a counter-balance to the forces of natural resource exploitation.
Watchdog groups such as the government-funded Defender of the
Inhabitants also contributes to the country's nature-friendly
reputation. Although Costa Rica is only about the size of West
Virginia it has handled the challenge of preserving nature better
than many.
Pura Vida, or "pure life," is a kind of national slogan that
is seemingly on every T-shirt -- it encompasses both respect
for nature as well as its enjoyment to the fullest. There are
few things more enjoyable than white-water rafting through a
jungle, and the knowledge that it helps preserve nature is a
big plus.
Besides rainforests, the diverse ecology of Costa Rica includes
a fair-sized area of dry, arid land in the northwest corner
of the country, home to some of the best beaches for sunning,
swimming, and surfing. Consequently, it's also home to developers
and speculators anxious to build the next Cancun. So I decide
to explore it before it changes.
The "express" bus covers the 330 kilometers from San Jose
to Playa Tamarindo in a long 5 1/2 hours. The red sun sets over
the Pacific Ocean as our bus winds down the mountains to the
dusty dry plains, where cabelleros (cowboys) still work cattle
ranches. It's dark by the time we get to the beach, and a hot
dry night wind blows dust everywhere. But the roar of the ocean
surf promises a cool morning swim.
After breakfast, I walk out to the point where the small San
Francisco river meets the great Pacific's tide. Cary Brown,
the owner of a local aquatic center, stands next to a group
of tourists and their guide, waiting on the beach to take multicolored
kayaks into the watery maze of the river's estuary.
"It's incredible to think that in five years this may all
be gone," he says, gesturing to the mangrove swamp that frames
the estuary. "This may all be hotels and jet skis."
Intrigued to think I may never be able to see this again as
it is now, I accompany the group. We slip into the delicate,
clean water of the Rio San Francisco and paddle in with the
tide. The river widens into a flooded mangrove forest, full
of birds perched on bleached-white bare tree branches. White
heron, blue heron, roseated spoon bills, white spoonbills, osprey,
green parrots--and, of course, vultures. They sit on guard,
unaware that their time as sentinels may be numbered.
Our guide, a displaced Frenchman named Jean-Baptiste, points
out the diverse wildlife that call the estuary home. As we glide
quietly among the plants growing out of the shallow flood plain,
I feel like an explorer, a modern Coronado. Approaching the
river's head I have the unique fortune to encounter some of
the estuary's less hospitable creatures. The river narrows and
when my kayak--the last in the line--passes a scrubby tree on
the bank, a cloud of mud wasps decide mine was one kayak too
many.
As the wasps attack, I frantically roll over into the water.
When I surface downstream they've retreated, so I right my kayak
and gratefully climb aboard. Soon my face and neck swell up,
but remembering the golden eyelash viper puts my pain in perspective.
After the jokes die down, we start back to try our kayaks in
the Pacific surf. I paddle up to Jean-Baptiste and ask him what
will happen if the river banks are developed.
"I've fallen in love with the Rio San Francisco and I'd hate
to see it destroyed," he reflects. "All these wonderful creatures
live here and I feel privileged to visit." As we float along
I tell him about the Rio Pacuare and the Aerial Tram. I tell
him about their experience with eco-based tourism and their
success in balancing nature's needs with commercial interests.
"What do you think?" he asks me. "Perhaps this river too will
be worth more as it is now than if surrounded by hotels?"
"Only time will tell," I reply, "but I hope so." Then I lie
back, close my eyes, and drift along on the gentle current.
This is Pura Vida. |
