Tuesday 19 August
2008, San José, Costa Rica
Costa Rica: Mud, Monkeys
And Macho Men
By Sasha Bates
It was one of those
things I was glad to
have done, even if I did
watch most of it through
my fingers. It was
fiesta season in Santa
Cruz, Costa Rica, and
the whole town was out
in force to celebrate
its culture and its
cowboys. An angry
looking bull bucked its
way round the bullring
while a sexy sabanero
clung to its back. When
the beast at last
prevailed and the rider
fell, half the town’s
youth ran into the ring
and taunted the poor
animal into charging
them.
I can’t say I approved,
either of the macho
posturing, or the
teasing of the bull, but
no one could say this
wasn’t authentic. And in
Costa Rica nowadays,
authenticity can be a
little hard to come by.
However, Guanacaste
Province in the extreme
north-west of the
country is traditional
to a fault. Bordered by
Nicaragua to the north,
the Pacific Ocean to the
west, and a chain of
volcanoes to the east,
its relative isolation
makes it the country’s
most sparsely populated
region, and the least
touched by change. Its
hot, dry climate and
dusty plains are home to
the country’s cattle,
and with them the rich
culture of the rugged,
solitary cowboy.
It still has the
dramatic scenery, exotic
wildlife, gorgeous flora
and rumbling volcanoes,
as well as its best
walking and riding, but
most visitors head for
its beaches and leave
the interior alone.
The reason seems to be
its inaccessibility. In
the volcanic east
especially, with its
numerous national parks,
paved roads are a rarity
and even short distances
take an age, but I found
that bouncing along a
rutted, mud track in a
rusty old Jeep, passing
men in big hats on tough
little horses herding
cattle, only added to
the attraction.
Especially when my
destination was Rincón
de la Vieja, a volcano
which erupted as
recently as 1998.
Reaching the crater
involves a hefty hike,
but the walk starts
gently through tropical
dry forest – a rare
landscape which
Guanacaste is doing its
best to protect. It is
home to a fantastic
array of wildlife:
howler monkeys lived up
to their name and
hundreds of birds flew
close by, as did amazing
butterflies, the most
spectacular the blue
morpho, a stunning
electric blue in colour.
The most impressive
flowers were the
wonderful orchids
attached to the trunks
of some ancient-looking
trees.
The biggest surprise,
though, were the mud
pools – incredible lakes
of mud, heated from the
depths of the volcano,
which bubble frantically
like a giant witch’s
cauldron, steam rising
ominously from the stew.
Add the hot springs,
sulphur pools and
waterfalls, and you have
just about the most
dramatic hike
imaginable. The summit
can be reached in a day,
but many people camp
overnight to allow a
more leisurely descent.
With so much to see en
route, I chose not to go
to the top, cleverly
avoiding the camping
option. Instead, I was
staying in the rather
wonderful Hotel
Borinquen Mountain
Resort and Spa. Set in
spectacular scenery, it
spreads out over a
hillside with cattle
roaming the pastures
above and below. It has
its own stables, riding
being one to explore,
along with quad bikes,
which were great fun,
Jeeps to get farther
afield, or simply
setting off on foot.
However you see it, the
countryside is
beautiful.
Returning to the resort
after an excursion was a
joy. The enormous
swimming pool was
overhung by trees full
of howler monkeys,
meaning you could watch
their activities from
the comfort of your
sunlounger – a proper
armchair safari. Then
there were the natural
spa amenities, the
resort being so close to
the volcano that it has
its own bubbling mud
pools. A little wooden
hut has been built on
stilts directly above
the best, creating a
wonderful, natural steam
room.
You can follow this with
a mud bath. The hot mud
is decanted every
morning into large urns,
where it cools
sufficiently to be
smeared in warm lumps of
gloop over your body.
Dry off in the sun,
shower off the mud, and
wallow in one of three
hot sulphur springs. Top
off with a facial or
massage and sleep like a
baby.
All very luxurious, but
so far not exactly the
authentic cattle-country
experience. Hence my
visit the annual fiesta
in Santa Cruz — a
typically Costa Rican
town, mercifully
untouched by tourism.
Each day of the fiesta
starts with a service in
the startlingly
modernist church, which
I was surprised to see
was packed to the
rafters. This was
followed by a procession
– stilt-walkers, cowboys
on horseback, and truck
loads of bulls. The
whole thing seemed
fantastically amateurish
compared to the massive
carnivals of South
America, but it was
earthy, and the locals’
fervour and obvious
enjoyment made up for
any lack of glamour and
glitter in the costumes.
Local bands played
salsa, everyone joined
in with makeshift
percussion instruments,
or as dancers, and the
whole chaotic troupe
made its way through
food stalls and
fairground rides to the
bull ring, a temporarily
constructed wooden
affair with planks for
seats.
Comfortable it was not,
neither to my bottom,
nor to my soppy liberal
sensibilities, but it
was a lot of fun and at
least here there is no
tradition of killing the
bull. The macho
posturing, man versus
beast, seemed funny to
outside eyes in this day
and age, but it stoked
the appetite of
participants and
audience alike – an orgy
of eating and dancing
went on afterwards long
into the night.
It became obvious to me
why Guanacaste has
remained so authentic.
Its people work hard,
play hard and know how
to keep the old
traditions alive, to
celebrate what they have
and what they do best —
and they don’t try to
change anything to
pander to softie
visitors. And my
goodness, they also know
how to party.
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Howler monkeys live up to their names |
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