Here is a summary of the trip with pictures:
After Suzy researched and found out what all was in store for us just to get down to Bocas--another reason for much pause, I started retelling The Odyssey to the kids--one part each night. With our spirits for adventure thus roused, and with Terry and Teresa most graciously agreeing to let us tag along with them, we set off.
First, it was a long drive from San Jose to and down the Caribbean coast. This included driving a road called Highway 32, a tortuous cut across the central mountains and rain forests of Costa Rica, often closed due to landslides, or choked with slow-going tractor trailers. The repeated admonition was "Leave early," so we pulled the guys out of bed early Wednesday morning, and ate dry pancakes in the car for breakfast. Charlie called this part of the trip "Batman," and, like Batman, we pulled it off with apparent ease. In Puerto Viejo, near the Southeastern tip of the country, we left our cars under video surveillance at a backpacker's hub called "Rocking J's," a "service" costing $6 a night, and illustrating just how common an option this trip is.
Kiefer got to name the next part of our journey--yes, I'm sure you guessed it: "Spiderman." We took a shuttle to the border, and crossed it by foot (--well, Kiefer by web-swinging). It was strange: I felt like I was in some movie about illegal immigration--except that we were taking and posing for pictures and all.
(I'll tell you, the bathroom Scout's insistence forced us to find in something like a grocery store on the Costa Rican side might have been, or at least should have been illegal--worse than Polyphemus's cave--far worse. We didn't wash our hands in the sink for fear we would get dirtier. Ick!)
Anyway, another shuttle and a smiley guy named Rocky took us an hour or so to the Panamanian coast. Charlie had the special treat of sitting up front with me, but ended up sleeping the whole way, with his body against mine and his sweaty forehead propped by my arm and hand. I absorbed the moment quietly, thinking about all the dreams I forgot to have, but which are no less thrilling to seize upon and live. A child's merest instance, if you think about it, can be Vulcan armor against any existential crisis, perdurable and glorious...
Scout's "Princess" portion of the trip came next. We took a faerie to the main strip of Bocas, where we parted from our guides and benefactors Terry and Teresa, and then went our own way, via water taxi, to a separate, supposedly quieter island.
Our hotel was not sufficient, though--not for a family of five (--one of many examples of how traveling with children is far different from traveling without them--Suzy and I are still learning), and the beach was a long, perilous hike away, beset with Laestrygonians or something. At this point in the trip, I would have said that there was no part of Costa Rica that wasn't better than Bocas del Toro--the irony of Mikey's refrain folding back upon me.
We ate a yummy, but tricky dinner, tired and struggling with whether or not it was worth trying to make the most of our present situation. The kids, cooped up pretty much all day, were bouncing off the walls--literally: each one of them cranked his head on some wooden edge of the dining porch--cranked it hard (--I know, what kind of parents are we?, except that no one else was there, and there were literally two bouncy mattresses irresistibly placed on the floor, with a hammock just beyond them and beside our table). Mary was our cook and, in lieu of the owner, our host, and she was more than pleasant, like Circe of Aeaea (--she even said her son would protect us on our trek to the beach in the morning), but truth of the place's insufficiency became more and more undeniable, especially after my sleepless night.
When morning came, we decided not to go to the nearest beach, but ventured out again, again by water taxi, to a different part of Bocas, to see what else we could find for lodging. We checked out Red Frog Beach, and, after a dubious hike through the jungle, past a pond I later realized was home to half a dozen crocodiles, at long last, we did arrive.
I checked to see what the lodging was like while Suzy took pictures of the kids testing out their own ironic faces.
The place was called Palmar, and it consisted of a small collection of "luxury" tents, a single rain-water shower operated by a forr-pump, a couple of toilets, side by side, and a good restaurant, with a young and wonderful staff.
Perhaps it was the contrast to the last place, or the terrific owner, or maybe it was simply its proximity to a great and relatively quiet beach--whatever it was, we felt completely at ease, and we booked a tent for the next two nights. With a quick trip (by myself), back to get our things, twice again by Scylla's hidden heads in the pond, we were officially "glamping," and Bocas del Toro was indeed beginning to secure itself in our memories as one of our favorite parts of this year abroad.
We spent the rest of that day, and the entire following day just walking barefoot back and forth between our tent and the beach, playing in the sea, building sand sculptures, and eating at the Palmar restaurant, where the Italian chef simplified his dishes for the kids. The first night, in fact, after finding out we were DeStefanos, he came to our table and said, "I spent a lot of my youth eating that meal right there." I said, "Yea, they love it. Reminds me of how my grandmother used to make Pastina." "You mean with the tiny pasta balls?" he asked. "Right," I said, "with ancini de pepe and parmesan." "Stop it," he demanded, "or you're gonna make me cry." And then he left us and went back to work.
Terry and Teresa even came and spent the first half of that second day with us. Terry, Suzy and I couldn't get enough of the waves, and Teresa just chilled on the beach. Suzy and I actually got burnt, which as many of you know, irks her to no end. But the point is, we were loving Bocas. How could you not?
Nevertheless, we decided, on the third day, to take the popular tour of the islands, and see what else was out there. First, we went to see dolphins, dorsal fin, dorsal fin, once again dorsal fin and then tail--the tail means it goes down for a long while. Then we ordered an overpriced lunch at a floating restaurant (--think ski lodge prices). And then we lighted upon Zapatia beach.
Oh, it was wonderful, white sand, crystal clear water, just what I had hoped for. It was the back side of an island where the waves could hardly crash--a kind of refuge from Poseidon's irascibility. Note to self: There is another side to every island. The kids came out shoulder deep, Kiefer and Scout playing like Mommy and Daddy and Terry in the "waves"--Kiefer even spitting and looking intense as though he were halfway through some fierce sporting competition, and Charlie was going "elevator up" on the rolling surges. What a blast. I took pictures until the camera's battery was depleted.
We ate lunch and Suzy even snorkled at a nearby reef, and that just about did it. A pizza dinner on the main island of Bocas, in a place with surfing videos on big screens, to which the kids could now "totally" relate, and with fire-dancers performing for dessert.
Having to leave pretty early in the morning, we opted for simplicity, and stayed at the same hotel where Terry and Teresa were staying--we actually stayed in the room next to theirs, though we did not really reconnect until morning.
I'll tell you, I feel so lucky to have found people like them. They have about ten years on us, and they have traveled their whole teaching careers, mostly in Europe, and raised their two sons while doing so. And as though that were not perfect enough of a connection, they are also originally from Nebraska, which they and their sons still call home, and they have the best, most calming and enjoyable personalities. Like Alcinous, Terry kind of saw to it that we got home okay. But it wasn't until we were all eating lunch at a "soda" (a common Costa Rican restaurant) on our way back to San Jose--not until I noted the special way our children react to Terry and Teresa that I realized that the two of them make a connection of even greater mythic proportions: they have become something of a surrogate for Grandma Martha.
In fact, the next day at school, Terry came walking up the steps and said, "I just had my day made twice over." "What do you mean?" I asked. "I was walking up here from my room, and both Charlie and Kiefer broke rank from their class to run and hug me." Yea, like Grandma, Terry and Teresa have that unique ability to reflect our own children's joy of life. What a blessing to have them here with us. Indeed, the best part of our journey in Costa Rica may very well be them...
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