I had obviously picked the wrong side of the bus on which to sit. I should have given a bit more thought as to where exactly the sun would be during an early afternoon, southeastern jaunt down the Pacific seaboard of Coast Rica. Now, as my friend Trevor naps a few rows back – on the opposite, shaded side – I am battling with my broken window, which as far as I can tell is permanently stuck in the closed position, trying to get a little fresh air moving to take to edge off of a bus full of passengers and the tropical sun which is barreling down on my cheap sunglasses.

I suppose I am a bit cranky from a lack of sleep. Trevor’s plane had arrived the previous day with no delays and we had celebrated his first night in Costa Rica with my friends Dave and Dan at a few late night places around Alajuela. This morning, with the music still ringing in our ears, we had hailed a taxi to the Coca-Cola station in San Jose, purchased a couple of tickets for Playa Hermosa and, saying goodbye to the city, stumbled aboard the cramped coach. The route was familiar to me as I had taken just over a year ago on my way to Mastatal. It is a windy road which cuts though the southwest slanting mountain slopes, passing lush foliage on its sides and crossing steep creeks which at several points cascade their waters down sharply to join other, larger tributaries also bound for the Pacific. I remember it being a beautiful drive. But today, as I am sitting on the side of the bus facing the intense coastal sun, wedged up against the smoldering glass of a window that, for all my effort, refuses to give me even a scent of fresh air, and wanting nothing more than to catch a few extra moments of sleep before I have to exit and find a way to the refugio on Punta Judas, I am not paying any attention to the view.

Our driver pulls in for a pit stop at an open air market and I have to restrain myself from jumping over the other passengers and making a mad dash for the door. I finally reach the exit in a civilized fashion and, after a few moments of giving my full attention to the marriage of sweat and breeze occurring all over my soaked skin, I begin to survey my options for a mid-trip snack. The market is small, yet big enough to handle a few buses, and is full of people who are traveling from different directions, to different locations, and who are taking a break from it to shop for a piece of fruit or some bread or a plate of rice and beans. I settle on a baggie full of globe grapes and a small piece of pan de maiz and pay the vendor, who gives me a toothless, “Gracias”. I climb back on the bus opportunistically early to seek out any seats on the shaded side which may have become available due to passengers who had reached their final destination. Seated comfortably in my new shaded chair with one arm hanging out the open window and the other lifting grapes into my mouth I glance outside and begin to regain the since of optimism and sanguinity that had thus far been the driving force of the journey.

It is not long after we resume the ride that the seemingly endless downward slant of the road meets with the flattened terrain of sea level. Placing the back of my hand to the window I notice an immediate increase in the outside temperature. The clouds, which have been forming all morning from the condensing moisture in the mountains, now break and allow even more sun to shine down on the vehicle. The trees and dense foliage turn into cow pastures and monocultures of rice and corn. Along the perimeter of these fields, atop fence posts made of live cane, iguanas and whiptails bask, chins held high, in the increasing solar radiation.

We pass the crashing rocks of Playa Jaco’s southern boundary around mid-afternoon and it is not long after when the driver pulls to the side of the road and yells back, “Playa Hermosa, Playa Hermosa!” We step out into the humid, salty air and pull our packs from under the bus, which leaves us in a trail of dust as we turn to assess our new location and to plan our next move. I have no information on how to get to the refuge save for a piece of paper with the name of a furniture maker, Roberto, who I had been told knows the directions. I ask a couple a teenagers sitting at the bus stop waiting for a ride back to San Jose if they know the location of the furniture maker’s workshop. They discuss the question for a few moments and then point their fingers in unison across the street to a pile of felled teak trees. As the late afternoon’s setting sun begins to paint the sky in cotton candy pink, we cross the road and walk up the drive way leading to an open, tin roofed structure. The yard is filled with different species of gorgeous tropical hardwoods lying out to dry. Some are cut into cross sections displaying rich purples and vibrant yellows, while others retain the girth of their beautiful, buttressed roots. Inside the workshop, finished tables, chairs, desks, shelves and cabinets are lined up row after row, some waiting for another coat of varnish, and some just waiting to be delivered.

Two headlights pull into the driveway and the door to an old, International work truck with a makeshift bed on the back swings open. Out steps Roberto in a pair of beautifully detailed leather cowboy boots and a large Tico smile. “Que tal mine?”, he says walking toward us with his hand extended forward. I tell him of our plans to reach Punta Judas and, after negotiating a price, we toss our bags up on the makeshift bed and climb on ourselves.

Riding down a Central American road, on the back of a filthy furniture delivery truck, sitting atop a piece of freshly cut tropical wood in total darkness, is one of those experiences that everyone should try at least once. This particular stretch of road runs parallel to the nearby beach and as the wind blows my hair back behind the ears I can taste the clammy salt sticking to my face and lips. Though the rusting metal of the vehicle amplifies the noise of every bump, it is not enough to drown the melody of cicadas and frogs calling from the rapidly receding ditches and overhanging foliage.

Soon, Roberto slows the truck to a crawl and we make a hard right onto a small dirt road leading off into the dark vegetation. Potholes and water puddles lining the middle of the road push us into the tall grass at the side. As we pull off the path into the undergrowth a startled caiman lifts its large reptilian body from a puddle ahead and clambers into a stand of thick, yellow cane. Giant palm leaves which hang from trees in a plantation to our right brush my face and shoulders as I stand over the cab peering down though the headlights at all the life along this road.

We pass from the palm plantations to fields of rice to horse pastures. Finally a sign which reads,
ESTACION DE VIGILANCIA
PUNTA JUDAS, PUNTA MALA

comes into our headlights and we can see the amber lights of the station house in the blue background. Roberto parks the truck directly in front of the door and a couple of volunteers, Silvia and Abby, are there to greet us before we have time to jump down.

We are set our gear down in our room and grab some dinner. Afterwards we take a small tour of the house and its time to take a small nap. The sea turtles have already began their nightly emergences onto the beach and in 2 hours Trevor and I, the new guys, have first patrol.