Driving in Costa Rica

Sunday (Hugh)

We arrived in Costa Rica late afternoon Saturday, got the kids into bed and then de-stressed by demolishing a bottle of wine, in the meantime chatting to our new friend Herbert the barman (a native Costa Rican – odd name given that).

The next day we split up, Sarah taking the kids off to a volcano then San Jose zoo, and me disappearing early doors (0530) to go rafting on the Pacuare River for the day. Managed to hook up with some yanks, got a front seat in the boat and had a terrific day running the Pacuare’s grade III and IV rapids. Quite a trek – going anywhere in Costa Rica takes a while it seems, but well worth the trip. Returned to the hotel in time to go swimming in the rain with the team (much to the Costa Ricans’ bewilderment), dinner then bed.

Monday (Hugh)

Today our mission was to drive to Jaco, a town 2 hours away on the coast surrounded by decent surf beaches. We hired a car, against the advice of some, but hell, how can it be worse than driving in Italy?

Having now driven 150kms or so, I can assure you that it is far worse than driving in Italy. For those who wrestle with matters philosophical, witnessing Costa Ricans driving is as close as you’ll ever come to concrete proof that a higher being is watching over things, or at least watching over Costa Ricans driving. These guys are nuts and make the taxi drivers on the Bourg St. Maurice – Val D’Isere road look conservative. They will overtake at any opportunity, on blind corners, hidden summits, absolutely anywhere. I thought I was doing quite well joining in as the drive progressed, had the team gasping a few times, but lost all enthusiasm for this when overtaken by a fully laden coach, the driver gesticulating wildly at me, presumably for not taking the obvious opportunity to overtake that he had spotted. Quite fun, but not for the faint hearted.

Stopped short of Jaco to look at crocodiles. Big fellas these.



Monty likes the lorries.



And we are now ensconced in something called a condominium at the far end of Jaco beach. Great place, super set-up, nice waves, have already hired a board, and to boot good response times from the local ambulance. Here I think we have everything that we need for the next two days or so.

Eliza cracks her head open - Blood in the Water (Monty & Jemima)

While we were in the pool, Daddy went surfing so we thought we should go and join Daddy. We got the first few waves – a good start of course. As Monty didn’t have a surfboard he borrowed Daddy’s big surfboard (J).

And I can stand up and lie down on no waves (M).

While Monty was practising his standing up on the surfboard with little waves, Eliza got a wave and shot right into Monty’s surfboard at the end on her eyebrow. Initially we thought that Eliza just shot past so we ignored her, but then as she started crying she let go of her eye with her hand and then we saw masses of blood dripping down Eliza’s face (J).

We didn’t know it was a cut and then we saw it was so we went to the hotel (M).

As Mummy had her flighty dress on, she took it off and put it on Eliza’s face to soak up the blood (I’m sure it won’t be a blue flighty dress anymore (J).

A ambulance came flashing its lights and it took Eliza to the hospital with Mummy and we took some photos. Here are some of them.

She just came back and she has 5 stitches (M).
Mummy and Liza in the ambliance.

The ambliance.

Eliza with her brave girl sticker

Impressions of Venezuela (Hugh)

A great country, and one well worth visiting if you fancy a bit of an adventure. We met no other English people, and probably only a couple of people with kids and these all Venezuelan. Other than Peter and Diego who helped with airport transfers, a couple of the guides in Canaima and the barman at the Posada in Los Roques, no one at all spoke English. We got away with my O level Spanish and a book I had bought at the airport – “Spanish in 15 minutes” which has quite a good dictionary in the back. As a result, we were able to ask for laundry to be done, the lightbulb on the left of the bed to be changed, and to organise windsurfing and boat trips. The barman told me that it would be easier to find someone who speaks Chinese than English in Venezuela, and while this can’t be true, it conveys the correct impression, that to come here with no Spanish at all would be a challenge.

Safety-wise, I am pleased that we avoided the centre of Caracas. When we originally arrived at Caracas airport, we couldn’t find the tour rep for a while, and that was quite a hassly experience. Everyone is trying to offer you taxis and black market Bolivars, and we must have looked like easy prey. Anyone you ask tells you that Caracas itself is a nightmare. Of course there are no-go areas and safe areas as in any city, but I think the no-go areas here are probably ones from which you would not emerge a happy camper. You pick up stories as you go along, and I heard a few from people who had got into airport taxis and not been taken where they had wanted to go. Watches stolen at gun point, all that kind of thing. The police are completely corrupt, so the serious criminals pretty much do as they please. We even met a couple of Venezuelans who were back here on holiday (Los Roques) having emigrated to Europe because of the situation. Apparently it is getting worse all the time (although they must have been saying that since time immemorial). One guy implied that even Los Roques is not safe any more - pirates have been known to attack yachts and so now flotillas stick together and take security with them. I have to say that we encountered no obvious signs of danger (at least not from criminal activity) and at both our destinations felt extremely safe and well looked after.

They have a very different outlook on life, the Venezuelans, and perhaps this is a South American thing. We haven’t travelled widely enough to know, but the South American novelists I have read like Garcia Marquez and Allende give the same impression. Our experience in the storm in the boat was illustrative of this, in that our boatman was not greatly troubled by what was a very dangerous situation, given that there was nothing that he could do about it. What will be, will be. If my time has come, then so be it, and such things are controlled by a higher being. You see the same with motorcyclists in Caracas – all carrying helmets somewhere on the bike in case the cops stop them – but certainly not on their heads. These will be on their elbows, strapped to the back of the bike, on the handlebars or whatever. The attitude is presumably that if their time has come, then a helmet will be of no use to them. They are fully aware that there is no helicopter evacuation here if they crash. The right doctor may not even be on duty, he could be on holiday, off-duty, whatever. He rides his bike in this fashion simply because when he sets out on his journey, some greater power will already have decided whether he will reach his destination safely.

And of course, the Venezuelans get up to different things than do the Brits, either because hobbies and personal time are a luxury they can’t afford, or because it does not occur to them to do the sort of things that the Brits like to do. In the respect, it occurred to me that if the Brits lived in Los Roques, it would be a very different place. It’s not unlike the Isles of Scilly as a natural phenomenon, although in a rather warmer place. We visited the Scillys in May, when the water temperature was 9 degrees and the air temperature not much higher. The locals amuse themselves by racing 19th century pilot rowing boats between islands dressed only in a pair of shorts then going and drinking 10 pints in the local pub. I think this would mystify the Los Roques inhabitants. These guys relax by driving huge overpowered boats up and down the “drag”, lazing around on the beach, playing basketball etc. Vive la difference.