We’re up bright and early.
After sorting out our excursion for the day, we take a walk down to a local watering hole – not in the traditional sense, like a bar – but an actual place where the locals go swimming.
The guy at the hotel reception, Menrique (who’s kindly helped us out with booking activities so far), gives us instructions on how to get there, mentioning that it should only take about 10 minutes.
The walk – with the hot sun beating down on us – seems way longer than we are told. Luckily, there is a tour/information centre on the way there, where the man inside informs us that we aren’t actually that far away.
We reach the side of the road, near a bridge, and angle our way down to the water. Jenn and Zoe dip their toes in the water and take pictures while I – sweating profusely from the sun – keep watch over our belongings.
On the way back, we stop off at the neighbourhood supermarket for a few things.
After lunch, it’s time for our tour. The tour company’s bus picks us up, along with another woman staying at our hotel – a woman named Eva – and makes its milk run until it reaches the starting point of our hike. We’re surrounded by green hills and trees, and have a clear view of the volcano. It’s the closest we’ll get to the molten beast.
Our guide is a man named Ramon, who starts off with a good old icebreaker game – inviting us to share our names, where we’re from, and what we do back home. Besides Eva from Germany, others in the group include two young travellers from Israel; two women from New York (not “America”, but “New York”), and another Canadian woman from Saskatchewan.
The tour begins. Ramon starts by telling us a bit about the volcano, showing us “before” and “after” pictures of the area in the late 1960s. Apparently, he used to live in the town that was destroyed during Arenal’s eruption in 1968 … and, as he tells us when the tour is underway, he narrowly escaped with his own life.
It turns out the volcano – which we had hoped would be active – actually became dormant about 18 months before our trip. In fact, it’s believed that it may not be active again. Or, if it is, it will be a long time. That said, people are still forbidden from climbing up the volcano, as avalanches can still be triggered.
We begin our walk along the trail. Ramon stops every so often to show us local plants, explain how folks might use it for home remedies (one was a leaf that was EXTREMELY bitter), and even sample the odd fruit or edible flower.
We see a few birds – including some wild turkeys (pictured at left). Ramon tells us we might be lucky enough to spot a toucan. No such luck.
We do spot a little brown robin, which apparently is Costa Rica’s national bird. I ask Ramon why. He offers two widely-known theories (in that country, anyway):
(1) This robin apparently have seven types of songs … which is representative of Costa Rica’s seven regions.
(2) There’s an old tale about a farmer tilling his fields, who notices the robins all around him, eating insects and other pests … which proves helpful in the farmer’s work. And it’s said that, if you see a farmer, chances are you’ll find these robins.
The hike ends. We make our way back to the bus, which then transports us to the various resorts – located at the foot of the Arenal volcano – that offer access to the hot spring pools in the area.
The springs are fantastic. And some of the pools are super hot. Literally. Instead of starting in a cooler pool and working our way up, my two friends decide to make a beeline for the pool that’s a “toasty” 47 degrees Celsius.
FORTY. SEVEN. DEGREES.
In my mind, I’m seriously concerned that my skin will either burn or melt off my body. I’m also glad that we’re visiting at night, and not in the middle of the day.
Sweet Fancy Moses.
Even when we get out of there unscathed and enter a slightly cooler pool – at 40 degrees Celsius – it is STILL hot. I am relieved (in all senses of the word) when we end up in a cooler pool later on – at 34 degrees Celsius, which is much more comfortable.
It’s a really good thing the pool complex is so enjoyable. Because frankly, the service leaves much to be desired.
The “boys” at the locker room counter barely stop chatting when Jenn is standing before them, waiting for assistance. One of them gives her improper information when she inquires about buying drinks. (He gives her the impression she can start a tab with the number on her wristband; she actually finds out later that she needs to leave her credit card at one of the bars to do this.) And the server at the swim-up bar is less than friendly.
(I suppose they conserve their courteous behaviour during the week, so they have enough energy to smile at the hordes that swarm the complex on the weekends?)
Still, we make the most of a mediocre situation and have a blast.
It’s at the end of our outing, while waiting for the bus to pick us up, that Zoe develops a horrible migrane. Luckily for her, it’s not a long ride back to the hotel, but she promptly went to lie down upon our return.
While she lies down to recover for the next day’s travels, Jenn and I go in search of dinner. We end up at this fast food place down the street, called Taco’s.
Jenn gets a quesadilla; I order a burger combo, with some of the crispiest fries I’ve ever had.
And this is when I bite into The Burger That Ruins Me For All Burgers. (Sadly, I didn’t have the presence of mind to take a photo – sorry, guys.)
I truly have no clue what’s in this thing, how it’s been prepared, or whether it’s the oil in which it’s been cooked. But honestly, TRULY, the burger is like nothing I’ve ever tasted before. In. MY. LIFE. The super-expensive, antibiotic-free, organic burgers I’ve eaten in my neighbourhood back in Toronto doesn’t even come CLOSE to holding a candle to the beef mush presently having a party in my mouth.
I secretly promise myself (1) never to eat beef in Toronto again* and (2) re-double my efforts to visit South America sometime in the next few years – particularly Argentina, where I hear the beef is reknowned.
We return to the hotel for the night. Tomorrow is our big day trip to Monteverde. We hope poor Zoe is well enough to make the trip … or else we will have to think up a Plan B – and fast.
* I, of course, have lied to myself, and have since consumed a number of Canadian burgers. Meh.