(Part Three of Four)

One night relishing in Zancudo’s scarlet sunsets, we referred to the Lonely Planet travel book and read that in February an indigenous village named Boruca held the Fiesta de los Diabolitos (Celebration of the Devils), a re-enactment of the war between the Spanish and the Indians.

The local Ticos (Costa Ricans) said the bus would pick us up on time, sometime between 5:30am and 6:00am. This bus was an old, dilapidated school bus, which stopped at every other driveway to pickup a variety of passengers. After the Inter-American Highway and 100 miles, which took six hours of crowded, humid buses we were dropped off on the side of the road.

Wanting spontaneity, we were journeying on a whim and the bus driver was very vague when he pointed his finger out from the bus and up the mountain saying “Boruca,” we soon found out why. Nathan and I cautiously crossed the road and continued on foot figuring we’d reach Boruca after a two mile hike up the steep gravel road, but when the gravel turned into dirt and every hill brought another, we began to get discouraged.

Solidifying to us that miracles happen, a Tico carrying a horse to a nearby farm picked us up. We were dropped off and met a Tico named Walter. Under the scorching midday sun, we hiked and hiked in a thermal vertigo hoping not to pass out from our unexpected lack of water and stamina.

Sensing that we had no idea what we were doing here, Walter asked us if we had friends in Boruca. We didn’t. We spoke broken languages back and forth, but Nathan and I fully understood Spanish when Walter told us we would be able to stay with the family he was on his way to visit.

Finally we reached Boruca, guzzled down liters of water bought from the only pulperia (small market) in the village. We learned that The Lonely Planet travel book had printed the wrong information and, in fact, we had missed the Fiesta de los Diablitos and humbly followed Walter to our destination. Culturally, I had never seen anything like Boruca before, this native land was disappointingly isolated and was hardly accessible to or from any other civilization.

The Morales family seemed used to having foreigners stay with them occasionally. Everyone appeared older than they were, we mistook the mother for the grandmother. We then were given a tour of the village by Olga, a 20 yr. old women. We hiked around and behind the village, tasting fruits from trees and ended up at a huge “Cascada” (waterfall).

At the pulperia we bought chicken, (also flavoring) rice, and potatoes. I helped Olga in the kitchen and was amazed at the effort she had to elicit for a single dinner. The kitchen was a wood stove and a dirt floor inside wood walls with a sink (also used for bathroom routines) and a hammock.

Later we received fresh lemonade and coconuts that Olga’s brother Herman cut down from the very tall palms standing 20 ft. from the house. Herman was also a skilled wood carver and sold us devil masks he carved from balsawood. We were pleased to be granted such hospitality, but unsure if they expected anything in return. Trying not to offend the family we asked Walter what he thought was customary in this situation and he motioned “nothing,” but we paid them anyways.

Nathan and I were a little weary about where we might be positioned to sleep because of the Roman Catholic icons placed around the house. Later Olga showed us our room and I noticed that it had been prepared so as to not disgust us with its austere and old materials. I couldn’t help but be disgusted though by the tattered and musty blankets and the two-inch roaches near our beds.

Before bed, we watched and tried some more to communicate with the family. However, this became frustrating and so, we used our own made up sign language. There were many family members outside the house and all the kids frolicked together before they were summoned to bed. Nathan was beckoned by the mother to have a drink with the men of the house.

We were awoken by loud roosters, dog barks, and then, politely, by the mother, who had woken up early to make us rice, eggs, plantains and coffee. We caught our 6:15am bus out of Boruca and started on another time stealer ride traveling 30 miles out of way and twelve hours to return to Zancudo.

Next week my final vacation days and thoughts will conclude the series of “The Rich Coast: Adventures in Costa Rica.”