There were no easy roads to Tortuguero. We arrived by a speed-boat through a riverine marsh. Tortuguero is a coastal town, where sea turtles come every year to lay their eggs on the beach, hence the name. There are streams of volunteers during laying season, doing the good work of trying to keep populations of these incredible creatures up.
I remember one gloriously sunny day on the big island Hawaii, body surfing on a black sand beach. Clear blue enticed us to open our eyes underwater and endure the slight sting. To our surprise we were sharing the waves with a few sea turtles, flippers outstretched like wings, flying gracefully through the water, riding the surf, unconcerned like the masters they were.
This was not the season, and the beach was quiet, the shops, huts, and offices closed. Besides, we weren’t there for the turtles. We made a couple quiet inquiries around town and wandered down to the beach to find the recommended boatmen. We hired them and a guide to take us into the coastal jungle that crept at the edge of town. We climbed into their dugout canoes and headed into the thick green. The dugout canoe is easily my favorite riverboat. To make one, you’ll need a tree with a large enough intact trunk. If it is big enough around, it can be split and boats made from both halves. The boat is carved from the tree as a statue from stone. There are a variety of techniques: shaving, chipping, planing, chiseling certainly, but they also use fire, which was a surprise. A layer of wood is charred and then scraped off. Beyond the obvious removal of material, this slow burning dries the trunk and hardens the wood revealing any cracks that might later develop into...problems. They are narrow craft, smooth on the water, silent and graceful as they glide across the surface like other riverine creatures that have evolved to be exactly where they are.
We sliced upriver. Our only sounds were the dripping water and the gentle churn from our paddles. But around us the jungle was symphonic. The howler monkeys in the trees above us were unforgettable. Males develop this voice-box the size of Jupiter, or maybe a large grapefruit, whatever, and they send their howls bouncing around in there, picking up resonance and base, adding pride and confidence until they burst out and gallop unstoppably across the jungle like the thunder of a cavalry charge.
At one point our guide stopped and called into the shadows on the edge of the river. Two eyes suddenly brightened in the depths and approached our boat. This was a caiman, a sometimes smaller cousin of the alligator/crocodile, and it was injured, disabled. Its tail was just a stub. These boatmen had fed it, kept it alive, tamed it for just this moment, where tourists gawk and sit amazed. We did and we were. Not two minutes later something began to sting my left eye. I desperately wanted to rub it, but what did I have that was clean-ish? Not my hands surely. I tried blinking rapidly letting my tears do their work, but it wasn’t helping. It was worsening. It felt like a pin was slowly burrowing into my eye. I started imagining some jungle catfish eating my eyeball, or a tiny million-toothed parasite reveling in its new-found food heaven. The guide said "stick your head in the river, open your eye and rinse."
Here, I paused for a second. "You want me to stick my face in the river? This river right here? That not 2 minutes ago was alive with damn crocodile?" And he shrugged, as if saying: I’m just as happy sitting right here watching you suffer. At this point, I was sure my eye was bleeding.
What’s the difference between current pain and the fear of future pain? Certainty.
So I plunged my face in the water, opened my eyes, shook my head in rapid jerks left and right - I wasn’t going to make it that easy to have my face bitten off. I pulled my head out of the water feeling wonderfully refreshed and surprisingly pain free. The guide gave me eyebrows that said, I already know, and we were off again. “Ooh,” I whispered minutes later, “what kind of bird is that?” It was long-legged and long-necked with remarkable black and orange striped feathering.
“A tiger heron.”
“And that? What's that small yellow snake all coiled up on this leaf with accusing eyebrows like my grandfather?”
“An eyelash viper. Careful, they're jittery. If that bites you out here, you die.”
“Right,” I said, lips puckering, hand retreating, “gotcha.”