Month: December 2023

I was a bit excited to get out and explore Puerto Limón today as a refreshing change from the tourist hotspots I had been basing myself at recently. This is an authentic port city with hints of its colonial past sprinkled throughout. That said, it has all the grit and grime one might expect from a city of this nature in the region.

Suitably caffeinated up, I headed off back down the hill I was now so familiar with. I had read in the guidebook you could take a public boat to the little island out in the bay and was keen to check it out. I wasn’t exactly sure where to go as the LP has of course stripped all that useful information out if it’s latest editions… So I asked a señora at the entrance to the port facility. She informed me it wasn’t possible and a charming and well spoken Afro-Caribbean man stepped in to assure me that was indeed the case. However, he could organise a private tour for me. I told him I wasn’t interested in a tour and went to walk off after politely taking his card ‘in case I changed my mind’ when another hombre approached me to tell a different story. I found out that you definitely can get a boat out to the island and he gave me directions on how to get to the boat dock.

Dodging the hectic Puerto Limón traffic to make the necessary road crossings, I walked around the port facility to a small river where a couple of passenger boats were tied up. I asked what ended up being a somewhat inebriated hombre about boats to the island and he directed me inside the adjacent building where I found a lovely hombre by the name of Eduardo who was keen to provide assistance.

Eduardo gave me the name and number of a boat operator to contact. I spoke to him for a couple of minutes but it seemed if I wanted to go out by myself it would be more than I was willing to pay. That was when Eduardo intervened and spoke to the hombre to come to an arrangement. I would join another pre-booked group leaving in 15 minutes and only have to pay AUD4. A great deal that I immediately jumped on to. Eduardo showed me where to wait and explained to another hombre on the dock what was happening so he could ensure I got picked up.

My little boat came along and I jumped aboard. We putted past tiny, wooden fishing shacks lining the banks of the river and the Costa Rican Coast Guard (another never-ending branch of the CR Police), before reaching the mouth of the river. When we got there, I realised there was a gigantic cruise ship in port I hadn’t been able to see from the other side. I didn’t see any tourists in town so I’m assuming visiting passengers were bussed off to different parts of the country for day trips. It did explain the small array of tourist trappings surrounding the port though, in case some poor passengers dared to venture out on their own.

After passing the cruise ship, we headed straight out to the island. Isla Quiribri (or Uvita as it is locally known) is quite significant in Costa Rica’s history as Christopher Columbus anchored there in 1502 on his final trip to the Americas. We pulled up at a boat dock which was in a state of great disrepair and jumped off.

I quickly found and followed the narrow little track leading off into the jungle. This trail wound its way alongside the coastline, climbing little rises to provide its trampers with stunning vistas of its surrounding terrain. On the far end of the island were the remains on an 1886 hospital run by nuns for patients with incurable diseases and further around, the remains of the monastery attached to the operation. There was also a lookout tower built by the US military during WWII.

All around the island, was thick jungle running straight down to the rocky coastline. Birds circled high overhead and flittered through the jungle canopy. On the ground, leaf-cutter ants created orderly causeways through the jungle floor. And always, the sound of the powerful surf, permeated the cicadas and bird song.

After a couple of hours, I returned back to the start and decided to go for a swim while I waited for the boat to return. Suitably refreshed, I then found a perch to wait. The boat arrived at the designated time, but the party I had crossed over with had no intention of getting in board at that stage. As I was well and truly ready to go back, I wandered over and the young boys manning the boat were happy to take me and return later for the others. I jumped on board and we zoomed back to the mainland.

Back at the boat dock, I went in and thanked Eduardo for his assistance, then walked back into town. I wanted to wander around a bit more and see some of the old, colonial buildings. I found the city markets which had been in operation since 1893, and had a poke down its narrow warren of gangways.

Eventually, I made it back up to a little restaurant I had passed several times on my way to and from the hostel. Restaurante Linda Vista certainly lived up to its name and the city lights twinkled below as I had something to eat and wash it down with an ice-cold cerveza.

It was time to bid this sweet little town adios, but first our small gang of the previous evening went to see a tree where one of the group was pretty sure a sloth was living. We were certainly rewarded for our early morning efforts as not so high in the massive cinnamon tree was a sleepy sloth. After we unwittingly disturbed it from its slumber, it stretched a bit, then made itself comfortable and went right back to sleep. We left it be then and continued on our way.

One of the guys had booked a surf lesson and the rest of us went with him to find some breakfast close to his meet point. Pickings looked slim, but then we spotted an hombre sitting out the front of a hotel with a coffee so asked if the hotel restaurant was open for breakfast. It turned out that this particular hombre was the hotel owner down for a few days to attend to some business. French-Canadian, Jean, was particularly chatty and very entertaining as he explained how he came to purchase a piece of rocky land by the beach in the 1970s and transformed it into the beautiful little hotel it is today. He invited us to look over the property after we had had our breakfast and we ended up spending a couple of hours there chatting with him and getting the low down on Cahuita’s more recent history.

Back to the hostel to check out and collect packs for three of the five of us. I decided a farewell cerveza was in order so we went back to my favourite beach-front hotel for a brief bevvie before parting. Then it was to the bus station and boarding buses in two different directions.

Peter was heading to Tortuguero so caught the same bus as me as he had to pass through Puerto Limon to get there. After about half an hour of the bus rumbling along the main coastal road, stopping to pick up and drop off passengers, it started to rain. Heavily. Windows were slammed and the temperature inside the bus climbed steadily. Rivulets of water streamed past and the road was quickly inundated. As we approached Puerto Limon, thunder and lightning began to make itself known as the rain intensified.

Once at the bus station, I organised a taxi for Peter to take him to the boat he needed to get to Tortuguero as he didn’t speak any Spanish. I then checked how far away my hostel was. According to Google Maps it was only 2.5kms away and the rain seemed to be easing. I figured I could probably make my way there in between showers so started making my way in the light drizzle. Unfortunately, the drizzle ended up becoming a bit heavier and the route became quite interesting. Costa Rican footpaths (if one can bring oneself to refer to them as such…) are a mishmash of steeply sloping driveways, narrow steps, broken and uneven paths of concrete and/or tiles, and narrow, grassy tracks. Hazardous enough in the dry, they become almost suicidal in the wet. To top things off, shortly after setting off, the route began to climb a particularly steep hill. I remained committed and eventually reached my destination in a somewhat less than tidy condition.

My hostel host was particularly chatty and although desperate for a shower and dry clothes, I had coffee and a conversation with him first. I was pleased how well my Spanish held up as I haven’t really been conversing in it a great deal this trip and I’m still very rusty. However, I was able to satisfy his questions about me and Australia and passed a pleasant hour as such. Suddenly, I got a message from my Chilean friend, Maria. She had returned from Tortuguero and was now spending the night in a downtown hotel. I bit the bullet and walked back into town to meet her for dinner. It was a slow trip as playing chicken with Costa Rican traffic was hazardous enough at the best of times. It was lovely to catch up with Maria for one last time as she was leaving for home the next day. It’s one of the things I love about travelling; you are always making friends on the road. We said our final farewells and I turned to make the slow, steep trek back up the hill to my hostel.

The one thing everyone comes to Cahuita for is it’s amazing National Park. Only 10 square kms in size, this little slice of heaven packs a huge punch when it comes to local wildlife. I decided to do the whole 8.5km trail which works it’s way along the coast and around Punta Cahuita. Fuelled up on coffee and something to eat from one of the little local restaurants, I wandered over to the Ranger Station at the start of the trail to sign in.

The first couple of kms were pretty hectic as groups of local and international tourists were clumped together with guides strung out along the trail. I didn’t want to do a guided tour as I was planning on walking the whole loop, but took advantage of eavesdropping on the various groups as I wandered by. There were so many animals in that first section of trail that moving through became a slow process. I saw sloths, monkeys, raccoons, coatis, macaws, toucans, iguanas and even a couple of little snakes.

The trail twisted its way between stunning coastal rainforest and picturesque mangrove swamps; with regular little paths veering off to the palm-thronged beach. Eventually, it came to a small river crossing where it seemed most tourists turned back from. The river was easily forded however, and I continued on my journey. The trail continued past another small river crossing and on to Punto Cahuita, the tip of the little peninsula the park is primarily situated in.

At this point, the more adventurous tour groups finished up with fresh fruit in a little wooden pavilion and snorkelling tour groups congregated. In Parque Nacional Cahuita, it is illegal to snorkel without a guide, due mainly to the intense and unpredictable currents which plague this stretch of coast. I passed the little throng of people and continued along the trail.

The coastline changed as you went around the point. The rainforest was a bit more open and the beach all but disappeared. Waves gently crashed on the edge of the vegetation as the trail wound itself between tiny black sand bays strewn with exposed tree roots. There were very few people on this part of the trail so it was lovely to just soak up the tranquility.

Eventually, the beach reappears as you approach Playa Vargas. This beach has black sand where back around the point, the sand is white. Timid little hermit crabs scuttle along the track, sheltering under their shells as you approach. The surf is also rougher on this side and signs appear warning people about the hazardous currents. Despite that, I was in much need of a cooling dip so braved the conditions for a quick swim.

At this point the track spits you out at the Puerto Vargas Ranger House where there are some basic facilities to wash the sand off. This is also the start of a 2km boardwalk through mangrove forest to the Puerto Vargas park entrance. The boardwalk is relatively new and winds it’s way through stunning mangrove habitats. There are little wooden pavilions at intervals you can sit at and just soak up the tranquil environment. The gently crashing waves just beyond the mangroves set the soundscape, along with cicadas and frogs; punctuated with the distant calls of howler monkeys.

All too soon, you pop out at the Puerto Vargas entrance to the park and pass the ranger station as you walk back to the main road. I was planning on catching a local bus back to Cahuita, but accepted a lift for a few dollars from a passing shuttle bus. Back at the hostel, it was time for a much needed wash of me and everything I was wearing; hoping my clothes would dry in time for moving on in the morning. I went back to my favourite hotel overlooking the National Park and partook of more 2 for 1 daiquiris. I was updating my blog when I noticed some people looking up with their phones. There perched not far from my head, was a sloth slowly making its way along a cord strung between the table shelters.

On returning to the hostel, I met up with two of the guys I had been partying with the night before, a French girl and a young American guy. We decided to all go out for dinner at one of the local restaurants and as luck would have it, this restaurant still had its Happy Hour in full swing. Two extremely strong caipirinhas later, I had well and truly done with the cocktails for the day.

Up nice and early for breakfast after getting my stuff organised to move on. Hostel Playa 506 really is in a beautiful setting. Right out the front of the hostel is the beach. Waves gently crashing is a tranquil soundscape to chill to, but there is much more of this enticing country to experience.

I got information about where and when to catch the local bus to my next port of call, Cahuita, and waited well beyond the scheduled time. Just as I was about to give up and try hitching with three Aussie travellers I had met at the hostel, it slowly rumbled up. Clearly this bus was on Tico Time! We continued on into and out of Puerto Viajo and up to the tiny town of Cahuita. Lush, verdant countryside passed by as the bus stopped on a regular basis, picking up and dropping off locals. I chatted with the three Aussies who caught the bus with me, swapping travel stories.

In what seemed no time, we were in Cahuita. I looked where my hostel was and walked the couple of blocks. Secret Garden is a lovely little property located on the edge of the National Park and right in town. It is beautifully appointed and set amongst landscaped gardens. Unfortunately, the dorm room I was staying in wasn’t as salubrious, with five bunk beds crammed side by side with little space in between. Still, each bed had its own little fan, light and charging station so it was all that was really needed.

I had settled into doing some much needed washing when I got a message from Maria, my Chilean friend. She had moved up to Cahuita the day before and was staying at a nearby hotel. We met up and wandered to the beach at the National Park just up the road for a swim. It just so happened that the hotel at the edge of the National Park had two for one cocktails for AUD10 so I felt compelled to avail myself of a few after our swim.

It was then back to our respective lodgings where I met up with some other travellers from US, UK, Switzerland and the Netherlands. We chatted for a while before deciding drinking card games were in order and wandered up to one of the local supermarkets to buy beer. There may have been shenanigans and requests to keep the merriment down by management later in the evening, but no-one was kicked out and we eventually called it a night before anyone was. And so endeth my first night in Cahuita.

I went with Maria into Peurto Viajo after breakfast to cash up at the ATM and get some bug spray. I’m trying to use my credit card as much as possible as the ATM fees are astronomical. But some things you have to pay for by cash. There doesn’t seem to be any rhyme or reason behind fees – could just be to do with individual banks, but fees have been as much as 9%. I also needed to get some bug spray. I took a pump pack of Rid from Australia as I couldn’t take an aerosol can on the plane, but it quickly clogged and stopped working despite my best efforts. A massive pity as the aerosol can I replaced it with cost an eye-watering AUD21!! If I end up with any mozzie-born nasties after marinating in this gold-plated elixir, I’m going to be mighty pissed.

Back at the hostel, I rented a pushbike for USD7. Given I haven’t cycled outside of the gym for several years, it was a rocky start. But I eventually wobbled my way down the road back towards Puerto Viajo. The bike was very basic with no gears and back brakes but it did the job of getting me along the coast quicker than I could walk. I will hire a motorbike at some stage, but they are quite expensive to rent.

After congratulating myself on riding the three kms back to Puerto Viajo without coming a cropper, I decided to find a beachside bar for lunch and a cerveza. Puerto Pirate certainly ticked that box. With a funky decor and situated right on the beach, it was just the place to partake of tasty honey and lime shrimp tacos and watch the world pass.

Suitably refreshed, I jumped back on my deadly treadly (aptly named if you saw my cycling…) and headed back down the coast. I passed my hostel and the Jaguar Refuge Centre and was then in new territory. I wanted to check into the beaches en route and turned into a side street indicating Playa Uva. Riding down a rutted, narrow track, I eventually came to what was signposted as Sloth Point and parked the bike up. Obviously a popular swimming spot, the place was quite crowded so I wandered further up the beach to find a quiet spot to strip off and jump in the surf.

On the way back to my bike, I saw a sloth in the trees in the jungle next to the beach. They are such magnificent little creatures. So slow moving due to their extremely low metabolism, it’s like they are doing yoga in the trees and are a joy to watch.

On the bike again and I continued following the coastal track, passing more little beaches until I came to a river. From behind, a guy on a heavy duty beach bike passed me and headed over the river; continuing on the other side. There was no way my little bike was going to repeat those antics, so I pushed it over the hard sand and the narrowest part of the river crossing. Once there, I was able to find a continuation of the track, albeit a very rough, rutted one with tree roots playing havoc with the surface. This is was able to follow until I came to another river. Alas, this one was unpassable.

Reluctantly, I turned around and followed the track back to the main road. I was hoping to continue on to Manzanilla, however, it was getting late in the day and these roads are not best for night riding. It only took me about an hour to return to the hostel, by which time it was just on dark.

Bike parked up and it was time for a well earned cocktail in the hostel restaurant. Time also to work out where I was going next. I had decided I would start at the southern Caribbean side of Costa Rica and make my way around the country from that point. Decision made, I booked the next couple of nights on-line in Cahuita and called it a night.

Christmas Day and a lazy start. It’s always a different experience being away from family at Christmas when you’re travelling and everyone deals with it in different ways. Some travellers spend the day glued to the phone to friends and family back home. I personally find it easier to just treat it as a normal day. The time difference between Central America and Australia makes it difficult as well to make connections when you would like.

Maria, my Chilean friend, and I decided we would go out to the Jaguar Rescue Centre to see if it was open as we couldn’t find any information on-line. We caught a tuk-tuk and found it was well and truly open with over 100 tourists booked in for a tour. Fortunately, they split into groups of about 20, each with their own guide, which made for a more manageable experience.

The Jaguar Rescue Centre is actually a bit of a misnomer. Two European animal biologists met in Puerto de Viajo where one had already moved to. A local brought an injured ‘jaguar’ (actually an ocelot) to them which unfortunately didn’t survive, but that didn’t stop locals bringing the couple injured animals and referring to them as the Jaguar rescue people. The Centre has now grown to a large, well organised organisation running primarily on a volunteer staff, funding from public donations and what they make from tours.

Our guide, Carlos, was excellent. He explained how the Centre came about and the threats and challenges facing local wildlife. It would appear that electrocution from overhead powerlines are up there as the main cause of death and injury for animals such as sloths and monkeys. The Centre has an active program raising funds to purchase insulation for the cables to make it safe for wild animals. The Costa Rican power company has agreed to fit any provided insulation as part of an agreement it has with the Centre.

After our tour, we tried to find a soda (local restaurant) one of the guides recommended, but failed so had lunch elsewhere. Then it was back to the hostel for a chill for the rest of the afternoon. And that was my Costa Rican Christmas.

With the debacle of getting from Cartago to Orosi, I was keen to get accurate information about how to get to my next port of call, Puerto Viajo de Talamanca. It’s quite a long way from Orosi and I knew the journey by local bus would take several hours. So didn’t want to waste time trying to find information on the hop. I had met the lovely Dutch owner of the hostel a couple of nights ago who assured me the bus information in the hostel was correct so decided to rely on that.

I breakfasted again at my little Swiss bakery and while enjoying my coffee, the owner came out with an anxious look on her face. She was concerned that the buses may not be running as regularly due to it being Christmas Eve. I hadn’t considered that as I hadn’t encountered it as being a problem before in Central America. Christmas, Boxing and New Year’s Day, absolutely – most of Central America comes to a stand still. The señorita helping her tried to find information for me and could only find a direct bus from San Jose. Not my preferred option. The hostel owner had put me onto a site called ‘The Bus Schedule’, but I had been having troubles trying to get it to connect. Suddenly, that morning it did and I showed my concerned amigas. As some of the connections seemed a little tight, I decided to leave an hour earlier and leave a bit of wiggle room if I missed any of the connecting services. Thus, I bid adios to the señoras and walked over the road to the bus stop.

As luck would have it, the 9.30am bus was cancelled, as wasr all subsequent buses for the next 2-3 hours. Vuelta Ciclista a Costa Rica is Costa Rica’s answer to Tour de France and just happened to be passing through Orosi that morning. There would be no buses until it was all over. I went back to the bakery and an amiable hombre filled me in with all the details. I explained I had accommodation booked in Puerto Viajo and really needed to find a way to get there. That was when he offered to take me to Paráiso (the first bus change) after he and his family had had their breakfast as they were going that way themselves. I gratefully accepted and ordered another coffee while waiting.

Pablo and his wife, Jessica, another señora and I piled into the pick up and the three older teenagers jumped on the tray along with my pack and Pablo’s bike. In honour of my being Australian, Pablo decided the appropriate road trip music should be AC/DC’s Highway to Hell. I secretly hoped that wasn’t a foretelling.

We drove through back roads lined with locals waiting for the race to pass them. And then suddenly stopped on the side of the road on a hill. Pablo explained we were going to watch the race first, then go to the bus station. He kept assuring me that he would get me to the bus on time and not to stress. I had no option anyway as I was a captive audience. The race eventually passed and it was pretty awesome to experience. Especially with locals who could explain what it was all about.

After the last bicycle, support car/van/motorbike, paparazzi, police car/motorbike and ambulance passed, we all piled back in and on Pablo’s pick up and headed off on narrow, windy back roads; even crossing a small stream at one stage. Pablo kept assuring me all was fine with my bus schedule, although, by this stage I was having my doubts. Eventually, we popped out above a large town which I assumed was Paraíso. Alas, it was not. It was Cartago where Pablo and his family lived. Pablo explained we were just stopping at his home so he could get changed and then he would drive me to the bus station. I was desperately trying to get The Bus Schedule site to connect as we were now way past any bus timetable I had already searched.

Pablo cheerfully dismissed my concerns and we jumped back into his pick up to drive to the local bus station. He asked the señora there about connecting buses down to Puerto Viajo but wasn’t satisfied with the answer. Pablo thought it a safer option to go back to San Jose and take a direct bus. By this stage I was starting to think the same. I thought he was driving me to the bus station to take a bus to San Jose, but he drove me directly there himself instead – about a two hour return trip! He checked everything was in order before leaving me there. I was so grateful for his kindness. I tried to give him some money for fuel, but he wouldn’t accept it. Pablo explained he had travelled extensively and that other people had helped him out, so he was happy to help out a fellow traveller.

At 2pm, my bus rumbled out of San Jose and began its long, uneventful journey down to the southern edge of Costa Rica’s Caribbean coast. I eventually rolled into Puerto Viajo de Talamanca around 6.30pm. I caught a taxi with two other backpackers staying at the same hostel, checked in and found my Chilean friend, Maria. It turned out some of the backpackers had organised a Christmas party and invited us to join them. Festivities ended with a bonfire on the beach and a late night.

Determined to get out and see more today, I was up early and out the door by 8am. I went back to my favourite little Swiss bakery for breakfast and to set a plan for the day over a couple of cups of tasty coffee.

The main church in Orosi is the longest continually operating church in Costa Rica despite being only 250 years old. It is a sweet little building with a lot less of the ostentatious trimmings found in most Central American churches. There was a wedding taking place when I got there so I had to wait to poke around until afterwards. Fortunately, there was a very interesting little museum in the old convent wing attached to the main church. Some fascinating historical ecclesiastical items fished out of local Catholic institution storerooms made up the majority of the display.

Heading out of town, I crossed the Rio Grande de Orosi on what is known as the Puente de Hamaca de la Alegría, or the Happy Hammock Bridge. This pedestrian suspension bridge connects people living on the other side of the river with the main town and provides a novel way of crossing the river. Plus, it provides a much safer way of taking happy snaps of the river without worrying about an errant vehicle not so gently nudging you into its depths.

I noticed on the map, there was a lake only a couple of kilometres away that I thought I would wander out to. Unfortunately, I discovered the land around this closest point to me was privately owned and to go down to the lake’s edge, I would need to walk another few kilometres. As I had already come this far, I decided to continue. The road was narrow and not much in the way of easement on the side in most places, but the traffic was reasonably infrequent so I was able to work around it with a degree of safety.

Eventually, I came to a rutted, muddy track that lead down to the lake. Lago de Cachi is actually a reservoir and hydroelectric power-plant the Costa Rican government built in response to the devastating floods that used to plague the area. Now, it is a impressive, picturesque body of water, fringed with massive clumps of water hyacinths.

As the town of Cachi was only another couple of kilometres further on, I decided to walk there and see about the possibility of catching a bus back as it was now on dusk and I didn’t fancy dodging speeding vehicles on a dark, narrow, windy road. I got information about buses from a couples of señoras who advised I would need to go into Cartago and then back out to Orosi. Although not ideal, it was the safer option. I was directed to where the Cartago bus would stop and at the appointed time, it lumbered up.

The thing about Costa Ricans is that they smell great. Like a waft of sweetly scented fresh laundry. Unfortunately, after traipsing some 7kms in the humid countryside, I did not. And was most mindful of that as I climbed aboard the tightly packed bus. Still, it couldn’t be helped. We drove over the dam wall and although it was nearly dark by this stage, you could still make out an impressive drop into the valley below. The bus lumbered on through the hilly terrain and on into Cartago. This time I had the secret information about where the bus left from, though, I needn’t have worried. The bus pulled up directly in front of the Orosi bus. A few minutes later, I was back on the road again and this time got off in town. A big day, but most enjoyable. It’s great to be out in the countryside and poking around its fringes.

Yesterday took it out of me so I rested up until midday and took the opportunity to do a bit of washing. I’m the only one staying in my six bed dorm so really have the room to myself. Which was just as well seeing as I strung a week’s worth of washing across it.

I went out in the early afternoon to source food and found a delightful little bakery run by a Swiss lady who had been in the valley for the past 30 years. La señora wasn’t surprised to learn there were very few people staying at the hostel. She said that since the country had become so popular with tourists from Canada and the US, prices have been driven sky high which is having a knock on effect to places traditionally popular with travellers who now prefer to take their carefully coffered coins to more affordable neighbouring countries.

Refuelled, I went for a stroll around this pretty little town. Orosi is neatly nestled in a verdant valley, through which the Rio Grande de Orosi flows. The town itself is spotlessly clean and little casas with immaculately tended gardens and terraces front it’s streets. Nearly every casa has a pampered pooch or three and many a well-dressed, well-behaved hound can be seen being lead around the streets by its proud owner. The people are very friendly, greeting everyone they pass with a smile. There is much to like in this little community.

Dusk fell early, as it does in this country, so I returned to the hostel for a quiet night.

I had a much better night’s sleep and was up when the alarm went off at 6am. Caffeinated into a false sense of wellness, I checked out of my hostel and walked the few blocks to the train station.

Estación Atlántica is the main train station in San Jose that links to other towns and cities in the Highlands of the Central Valley. It is a gorgeous Colonial era building with many of its original details still intact. Through to the actual platforms, is another story, though. Functional steel ramps and stairways lead to awaiting spotlessly clean, modern carriages. Which then traverse over rickety, old line. None of the parts seem to match but somehow it all works.

Upon arrival in Cartago, I went to grab a coffee and something to eat. Which I then took back to the train station platform to have finding nowhere else to sit. That was until I was booted out by a transport officer who advised that the station was now closed and I would have to move on. I walked a few blocks until I found the main plaza, Plaza Mayor. There, I could finally get my bearings.

Las Ruinas de la Parroquia lie on one side of Plaza Mayor providing an impressive, albeit somewhat surreal, bookmark. This imposing facade is all that is left of a once magnificent church dating back to the early 17th century. Evidently, the original church was destroyed by an earthquake in 1630. No worries, said the good folk of Cartago, we’ll just rebuild. That was before Mother Nature decided to string together a series of earthquakes over the next 220 years which thwarted progress on the rebuild. Finally, the Cartago folk agreed it just wasn’t worth the effort and left it be. The result today is a beautifully landscaped interior, resplendent with an ornamental pond the kids can throw their hard earned pocket money in. Plus, there’s a really cool ghost story about a headless priest that roams the ruins on foggy nights. Clearly, this is a feature that ticks all the boxes.

My next stop was to visit a church with a different back story. Back in 1635 (or so the story goes), a woman found a statuette of the Virgin Mary holding baby Jesus and decided to take it home. For some inexplicable reason, the statuette kept disappearing from her house and ending back where she first found it. It turns out that when the lady spread word of this incredible turn of events, the good folk of Cartago were very interested indeed. It seemed that they had been trying to build a church for some time, but those pesky earthquakes that are a feature of this region kept hampering efforts. What if, this was a sign from the Good Lord to build the church where the statuette was found? Regardless, this building stuck and has been in situ ever since, despite numerous rebuilds over the centuries. And the statuette which was the result of all this takes pride of place at the alter.

Unfortunately, when I got to the Basilica, a service was about to start so I decided to visit another place on my list and come back when the service finished. The Museo de Cartago is actually a gallery space but I was interested in checking out the building it is housed in. Built at the turn of last century, it was originally an army headquarters used by officers in command. Like anything to do with the old army, it has been recommissioned for more peaceful purposes. Although it was pretty much a shell of a building, the cells were still available to see, as was a stone staircase that lead from that part of the building to an upper level.

Back to the Basilica and as the service was just finishing up. I took a seat and an opportunity to have a brief play with my blog site settings as they had all changed since I last used it. Suddenly, I had unwitting changed themes and couldn’t reverse it. My site was a mess, my ‘About’ page had disappeared and I couldn’t work out how to fix it on my mobile. I don’t know if the hand of God was on me at that moment but if it was, he was in a mischievous, meddling mood. I decided to shelve it for a bit and have a look around the Basilica.

I decided I would make my way to my final destination for the day, Orosi, where I had a hostel booked. Unfortunately, Lonely Planet in its infinite wisdom has decided to rip out all the useful information it was originally designed to provide and leave a shell of a guidebook which mainly deals with what to see. I did find an on-line bus schedule for Costa Rica which was brilliant, however, it didn’t give you any information on where the bus left from. I searched on-line and found a bus station so walked to where that was. A somewhat disinterested bus driver grumpily told me the bus I was looking for didn’t leave from that terminal and gave me directions on where to go. I followed his directions to find nothing, so went into a shop and asked someone else. This hombre wasn’t sure but directed me along a road where ‘he was pretty sure there was another bus station’. I duly followed until I was fairly convinced I was on another bum steer so turned around at the next intersection.

By now, I was hot, sick and grumpy and the execs of Lonely Planet were being soundly cursed. I had very little voice so asking anymore wasn’t really a viable option. I searched again on-line and found a mention of a corner the bus to Orosi left from so walked to there. However, no Orosi bound buses were to be found. I had the route number from the bus schedule site so showed one of the ‘somewhere else’ bound drivers who gave me directions to the Plaza Mayor. I followed, but yet again, no Orosi bound buses. As I got to the end of the Ruins, I spotted a bus with Orosi displayed and gratefully made my way over to it. The door was shut but the driver opened it to explain that I needed to go somewhere else to catch it. I could feel tears prickling as my new found hope dwindled yet again. Dubiously, I followed these new set of instructions and arrived at the destination, nose running, windswept hair strewn across my face and hacking up a lung. I had definitely had put the ‘wild’ into ‘wild woman’! Fortunately, there was my chariot awaiting to cease my misery and carry me onwards. I climbed aboard.

Now you would think it would be plain sailing from here to get to my hostel, but I was paying penance for playing on my phone in church. The bus had Orosi emblazoned across it’s screen, which I took to mean it terminated in Orosi. Apparently, that is not necessarily the case in Costa Rica. By now it was on dusk and I was enjoying the scenery from my seat when I jolted to my senses. A sign to Orosi pointing in the direction from whence we had just come. I grabbed my phone and checked. Yep, Orosi was on the wrong side of our ongoing direction. I told the driver who somewhat unceremoniously dumped me on the side of the road with a vague wave of his hand to indicate I should wait for a bus going in the other direction. I decided I would start to walk back rather than just wait. After a while, I checked how far back Orosi was and decided I would just walk it all the way. Fortunately, there wasn’t a lot of uphill so my poor lungs coped, but it was well and truly dark by the time I finished the 5.5kms to the hostel. I checked in and went across the road to a little pizzeria for something to eat, then a well deserved rest.