Our ride to the Carribean coast slows just kilometers outside of San Jose, where a traffic jam has brought hundreds of cars to a stand-still. All up and down the two lane thoroughfare, impatient motorists are honking their horns as if the sound will magically part the impending blockade and allow the noisiest drivers to pass on their way. Road side merchants who have capitalized on this inconvenience make their way from car to car and from bus to bus selling everything from bottles of water and little bags of home fried papas to maps of the country and even small Independence Day flags.

A young man in a pressed, yellow shirt boards our bus and begins to orate in a manor which would impress the finest of fairground salesmen. As he recites his obviously well rehearsed monologue, he walks the length of the coach handing to each of its passengers a small orange and blue booklet. I open mine to a photograph of a woman giving herself a breast examination. Printed a few pages before the interesting image is a list of the many medicinal uses of peji valle; a small, starchy fruit often eaten steamed and with a good amount of mayonnaise. I sit and concentrate on his Spanish words, listening for any I might understand. I decide that he is giving excerpts from this heath manual as examples for why one would want to purchase a copy. With his speech finished, he walks the bus again, collecting either colonies or the books from disinterested patrons.

I turn my attention to the world outside my opened window, and past the parade of calling merchants. In the ditch and on the steep slope leading up the valley wall, adjacent to the bus, the entire spectrum of color is represented in the weedy flora. Blood-red hibiscus complement lush, green ferns and ripe, yellow bananas set off the small blue creeper flowers which rest their vines over all the vegetation. I see beautiful poison frogs in the leaf litter near our tires and on the same shrub two butterflies, a Blue Morpho and a Doris Longwing, sit unmolested in the cool, valley air.

Our bus begins to move and we are soon traveling down the narrow road at top speed, which is still slow. With the mountains fading behind us the bus approaches Puerto Limon. Each side of the road is lined with chain link fences and razor-wire which mark the property boundaries of warehouses owned by some of the biggest fruit companies; Chiquita, Del Monte, Dole – they are all there. Some lesser known brands are also present, with out lack of proper security. Out side the well guarded fruit fortresses, rows of semi-trucks, each of which sporting a trailer with its company’s logo emblazed on its side and an exhaust pipe puffing out thick, black clouds of diesel smoke, sit patiently, waiting to back their empty containers up to the dock where they can be filled for export.

[More:]

As we pass though the heart of the city, it is quickly apparent that it is not as built up as some of the towns we have traveled through thus far. Clap-board houses with different colors of tin roofs make up the majority of the dwellings, each one once painted a brilliant hue of varied pastels which have since faded in the moist, salty air. Garbage lines the edge of the streets and men in dingy denim converse with prostitutes along a large, French style cemetery. From inside the bus, the ambient air smells of pungent, yet sweet, rotting fruits and marijuana.
We leave Puerto Limon as quickly as we had entered and the faded color and prostitutes are fast replaced by scenes of rural Caribbean life. Windows of tiny shacks which sit on the edges of large banana fields glow amber in the dark blue twilight of the vanishing day. Lit by the fire of burning refuse, I can see young girls skipping rope and boys playing soccer with unripe coconuts.

Our bus pulls into the center of Cahuita at exactly 7:18 pm, well past sundown and I am reminded of our first night in Costa Rica when we had arrived in Montezuma in the dark – literally. The first hostel we find is a bit more than we would like to pay without first looking around. We walk down the street and just ahead, silhouetted by the dimly lit street light, a tall, slender figure is standing with a bag of onions balanced atop his dreadlocks.

“Hay dar Boddy, Wat you be lookin far?” He says, with one hand on the onions and the other scratching his thin waist. “You need a room huh? Com wit me Mon, I tek som war perty cheep and noooooooo body gonna molest you”.

We agree and follow him up the dark road as he tells us all the good “tings” about the place where he is taking us.

“Do you own this hotel”, I ask, trying to find more information.

“Ha! No Mon! I leev in da bush! Bot Miss Linda gonna tek gooood care of you and yer lady.”

He is right. Linda’s Secret Garden, as the sign in front says, is a cute little hotel with all the look and charm of your grandmother’s front parlor. The walls of the room are painted a soft, pastel pink and hold fence wood framed, black and white photographs of children dressed in wedding apparel steeling kisses from one another. An antique chest of drawers, complete with doilies and a gaudy lamp, sits opposite the quilt covered bed. And, for ten bucks a night the only thing missing is the milk and cookies.

With our backpacks stashed safely at the Garden, we walk back down the dark street towards the direction of reggae coming from the middle of town. The center of activity seems to be pouring out of Coco’s, a hopping Rasta joint with a red, yellow, and green painted exterior and all the windows propped open for the town to hear. Our waitress is a flirty little thing who obviously loves life, and the night. She salsas her way over to our table, smiles, and takes our order. 5 minutes later we are sucking down two of the biggest pina coladas I have ever seen. After a few hours with Peter Tosh and Bob Marley, and with bellies full of rum, we stumble back to grandma’s house, doilies and quilts spinning as we drift of into a drunken slumber.

The next morning, eyes squinted from last night’s outing, we are able to take all of Cahuita’s beauty in as the morning sun basks the town in a brilliant orange glow. Just a block from the center of town, Cahuita National Park jets out onto a protected peninsula. Crystal clear and celestial blue, the 95 degree sea water is the perfect way to refresh ourselves. Walking the trail which boarders the water, we can see howler monkeys just meters above us and teams of leaf-cutter ants fast at work. We sit in a small, secluded cove for the rest of the day, dividing our time between swimming, sunbathing, and eating fresh mango and avocado we purchased from a vender at the front of the park.

In the evening, showered and ready for another night of excitement, we head back into town. The drums we had been hearing the last two weeks throughout our travels had all been in preparation for tonight. Independence Day had arrived and I was anxious to document that scene with my camera.

Just after sundown, in the main intersection, which was conveniently located directly in front of Coco’s porch, the entire town converges and awaits the older school kid’s drumming to commence. Younger children stand impatiently, holding poles with horse cart-shaped lanterns fixed to the top. With everyone in their place, the drumming begins and the parade of festive souls marches up and down the main street to the sound of rhythmic beats. Everywhere I look orange lanterns light up the dark road and drums boom over the tin roofs. Parents with blue, red, and white flags watch their children, remembering the times when they held a lantern. It is a site which I know I will never forget.

The next morning, having discussed possible “next destinations” with other travelers at the bus stop, we decide on Puerto Viejo. We pay our 200 Colonies, hope on board and we are off.