Ah, the late ’90s – a time of questionable fashion choices, dial-up internet, and unforgettable adventures. Picture this: San Jose, Costa Rica, early 1997. I found myself on an unexpected escapade while consulting for my friend, Mike Katz.
Our destination? The charming Puerto Viejo, a sun-soaked Caribbean beach with a nearby national park. Mike invited his former roommate Jen and her friend Johnny to join us. Little did we know, this trip would become the stuff of legends.
The weekend kicked off in classic tropical style – a hotel hunt, frolicking in 80-degree waters, and soaking up the sun. However, there was a twist – alcohol sales were banned due to presidential elections. No matter, we opted for a local dinner and called it an early night, unaware that our real adventure was just around the corner.
Sunday morning led us to Cahuita National Park, armed with excitement for snorkeling and relaxation. As we strolled along the beach, a jungle trail beckoned, promising encounters with the local wildlife. Intrigued, Mike suggested a detour to spot some monkeys. Little did we know, this decision would plunge us into a wild journey.
Suddenly, we found ourselves surrounded by a troop of over fifty White-faced and Howler monkeys. The jungle came alive with their noisy presence as we ventured deeper, completely enchanted. Until, that is, we realized we were lost.
As we attempted to retrace our steps, the jungle played tricks on us. Quicksand, knee-deep and treacherous, caught us off guard. Yet, we laughed it off, snapping pictures and cracking jokes – blissfully unaware of the impending ordeal.
Reality hit when we discovered we were truly lost. Panic set in, but we pressed on, guided only by Jen’s compass pointing eastward. With each step, the jungle revealed more challenges – mud up to our chests, spiders, ants, and a surprise encounter with a potentially deadly snake.
Hours passed, and with only half a liter of water for four parched souls, our situation grew dire. Desperation set in, cries for help drowned by the jungle’s symphony. The sun dipped below the horizon, and our optimism waned. The once amusing obstacles became life-threatening, our sandals broke, and Johnny, resourceful as ever, donned flippers for the journey.
Darkness enveloped us, mosquitoes attacked, and exhaustion took hold. The relentless pursuit of the elusive beach became our sole focus. Miraculously, Johnny’s cries led us to a road, and beyond it, the sweet sound of crashing waves. We rushed into the water, aching bodies momentarily forgotten.
A kind stranger in a truck rescued us from our jungle nightmare. Thirsty and battered, we stumbled into town, welcomed by locals watching election results. Despite the ban on sales, our tale moved them, and they relented, providing us with the elixir of life – water.
Showered and revived, we shared our story with Rastas in a nearby restaurant, realizing we had narrowly escaped crocodiles. A newfound friends offered a remedy for our many bug bites, and with gratitude, we headed back to the hotel.
The ride back was surreal – hallucinations, people in the streets, locals celebrating the election, and a shower that couldn’t erase the jungle from our skin. We woke the next day, wounds and memories etched into our souls. Despite the thorns, bugs, and mud, the adventure became a tale we’d retell for years.
And so, my Costa Rican escapade ended, leaving me with Pleurisy, a diagnosis, and a newfound appreciation for hot showers and the unpredictability of life.