A big anthill, about the size of a Volkswagen hulked nearby.

 

9-1-00 1:30 PM F In the air over Nicaragua

I was waiting at the gate at the Finca Ecologia on Monteverde. I kept hearing the weird metallic bonk of the worm-face bird, but I couldn’t spot it through the dense foliage. An agouti, like a cross between a little fawn with no antlers and a giant, long-legged rat, emerged from the forest onto the the dirt trail. A guy on a motorcycle showed up and opened the gate. He gave me a map, and I set out on the longest trail. Being the first one there (it was seven in the morning), I walked through a few hundred spiderwebs. I heard symphony of whistles and calls as sun rays began to penetrate the jungle. A few of them sounded like San Jose construction workers. A few more agouti wandered among trees choked by vines. Big whoop. Where were the monkeys, sloths, coatis, and parrots? I came to a lookout point high on a cliff. You could see the Gulf of Nicoyo beyond the lush green canyon and verdant farmland in the distance. A swallow-tailed kite soared on the air currents. A big anthill, about the size of a Volkswagen hulked nearby. I continued along through more webs and came across a convoy of leafcutter ants hauling their bounty across the forest floor. I switched to the red trail. A sign read that it was difficult, but intrepid Indiana Zurn fears nothing. He laughs at difficulty. How difficult could it be? Ha! I was crying for my mommy. It was cut into the cliff about two feet wide, slippery, and muddy with about a thousand-foot drop off one side. I was sweaty and panting within minutes as I descended a series of muddy switchbacks. I could hear a waterfall. I wished I had my hiking boots, but they were forgotten back in Montezuma. I slipped and fell hard, gashing my wrist and spraining my thumb. I pushed on. The falls fell about a hundred feet. Okay. I took their photograph and panted back up the canyon. BFD, I thought. Three hours hard work, no coati, no monkey, no sloth, no exotic birds. Pbbfft. I staggered back to the farm. “Hey, Kids! Thirsty?” Once again, I’d brought tobacco but no water on the Bataan Death March. I talked to a guy at the finca entrance and told him I hadn’t seen shit. He said que era un perezoso muy cerca. A sloth nearby. He led me to a barely discernible furball a hundred feet up in the trees, completely unmoving. Ooh. Phbbt. Okay, I’ve seen a two-toed sloth now. I guess. I started heading back up the trail. “Coatimundi,” said the guy. A Wily Coyote-looking thing, with pointed snout, a white mask, brown coat and a long tail sticking straight in the air ambled out of the brush to forage some fruit in a feeder. I took his picture, a cool-looking rascal. A veces los monos carasblancas vienen muy cerca, said the kid. Sometimes, the white-faced monkeys come very close. I hung around a while, but they didn’t come. I limped the two miles or so back to the pensión. We packed up, had a beer, and headed for Arenal, the recently exploded volcano. We were trying to go via Tilaran, but weren’t sure of the way. We came to a crossroads and asked a boy. He pointed the way and said he was going to Tilaran. We gave him a ride.

8-31-00 4:21 PM Th

We’re back in San Jose on the sixth floor of the Del Rey overlooking Avenida 2. Last Saturday, I think, we pulled into Monteverde in the late afternoon. A hip Central American rainforest mountain town full of European backpackers, youth hostels, and canopy-tour come-ons.  We had spaghetti for lunch on the fifty-meter main street in a place called Daiquiri. I had a beer and we looked over the guidebook, trying to orient ourselves. Rochelle still had trouble walking with her swollen sunburned ankles. We ended up checking into a pension. It had hot water, a bed, and a private bath. Across the street were a book store and coffee shop. I got a book of poems by Jose De Bravo, the most famous poet of Costa Rica, and I bought a New York Times and a Miami Herald, and the pretty gal who worked there smiled like she meant it. I got the feeling the hottie who ran the horses at the hostel was of yogurt-eating wimps, but was turned on by beer bellies. I read and wrote by candlelight after sundown. We went out for burgers at Teens. They were not good. Costa Rica is not a place for burgers. We went to bed early.

I’m writing this a week later, and it’s just mush in my psyche now.

I woke up early the next morning and walked about three miles to a place called La Finca Ecologia where I hoped to see some wildlife: sloths, monkeys, coatis, quetzals, parrots…