Continued from page 1
The Pacuare tent camp was spartan, but comfy.
By late afternoon, we reach our camping site. Perched up on a hillside at a bend in
river, it consists of a dozen one-person tents on platforms bordering a central outdoor dining area. One by one
rafters disperse themselves around
campsite, some hitting
cool showers (with drinkable water) to wash
day's exertion off, others simply slumping down in their tent to relax and reflect on
day.
When Alijandro approaches me and invites me on a hike to a small town nearby, I am initially hesitant. I look at one of
other rafters as he lounges in
shade of his tent, an open book lying flat on his chest that rises and falls with a rhythm of someone fast asleep and yearn for a bit of rest. But then I realize Hey, pal, you're in Costa Rica. Time's a-wastin'. Sleep when you get home. I agree and Alijandro's eyes immediately light up. I lace up my soggy shoes, grab my camera and away we go.
This is no scenic hike, it's a commute.
I want to stop, to spy into
trees, look for a story to talk about, but every time I look up, Alijandro has gained thirty feet on me. Sweat begins to pour off my face as we march up through
dense, steamy jungle. I've forgotten to put DEET on before we left and as we muck our way up
soggy, muddy path, I expect to be devoured by mosquitoes. Yet I'm surprised that there are almost no insects at all. In fact I have yet to be bitten by a single mosquito since arriving in Costa Rica (a record which will last another week until I reach
Pacific coast). But as we rise higher, it grows visibly cooler and
jungle around us thins. When I finally catch up with Alijandro, he is staring out over a huge expanse of green rolling hills, partially blanketed with canopy. He has a smile on his face like
proud smile of child showing his parents a hand-drawn picture from school. It is a smile of sheer exhilaration.
"Beautiful," is all he says. All he needs to say.
We trudge along a dirt road now, sharing stories with each other when I ask how much longer until we reach
town.
"We're here," he tells me matter of factly. I look around. Aside from a couple of scattered houses in
distance, a cow here and there, I seemed to have missed something.
Rural life changes slowly in Bajo Tigre.
"Oh."
"Bajo Tigre is a very simple town. Electricity only one year," as he points to a simple power line nailed to
trees. "Pura vida, eh?" he smiles. We continue along
road until we reach two small, single room buildings painted brightly. A hand-painted sign in front reads "Bajo Tigre" and above, "medicianales." Alijandro explains that this is
school and
herb garden in front is
village's natural pharmacy. He explains how this tiny school recently hosted American students for a day as a sort of exchange. He muses on
fact that even though
children didn't speak each other's language, they still enjoyed themselves immensely, especially when they played soccer.
"Who won?" I ask,
Read this entire feature FREE with photos at: http://www.jetsettersmagazine.com/archive/jetezine/sports02/raft/costa/raft.html
By Misha Troyan, California Correspondent, Jetsetters Magazine at www.jetsettersmagazine.com

Misha Troyan, California Correspondent. Join the Travel Writers Network in the logo at www.jetsettersmagazine.com