|  Eight
Degrees of Separation
A
Polar Bear Ate My Pizote
Antonio
Pizote sifts through passion fruit and papaya, cast aside after
one or two bites by sated and fickle spider monkeys. Antonio Pizote
is, well, a pizote or coatimundi, kind of a Central American raccoon,
a lone male searching and scavenging fruits and bugs under the
hastening dusk.
He
works methodically, groping the fruit, rolling it around in his
racoon-like hands. He glances over at us, mildly annoyed that
we are sharing this intimate, organic supermarket experience.
 It
is our first night in Playa Nicuesa, an ecolodge situated on the
coast of Golfo Dulce or Costa Rica’s ‘Sweet Gulf’.
Nicuesa is not so much nestled as swallowed up by tropical rainforest,
a 165-acre nature preserve which borders Piedras Blancas National
Park which borders Corcovado National Park which borders the Pacific.
Two
days ago, we (myself and my travel writing partner Carmen) were
still in Churchill, Manitoba, and there was no rainforest, actually
not much forest at all.
But
Costa Rica is not Canada. And Golfito, the nearest town to Playa
Nicuesa, is not Churchill. Yet, it still feels strangely familiar.
Both towns lie on the edge of great expanses of wilderness, equally
exotic - one about to be overwhelmed by surging and chaotic jungle,
the other overwhelmed by miles and miles of nothing.
Churchill
hangs eight degrees south of the Arctic Circle, a transitional
zone between tundra and treeline where boreal and arctic species
mix. Bordering Hudson Bay, it has some of the coldest and windiest
winters in Canada.
 Golfito,
for its part, bobs eight degrees above the equator, awash in humidity
and rainfall, one of the hottest places in Costa Rica.
But,
as they say, opposites attract and these two communities are no
exception. They are both on the edge, moody modern day outposts,
inviting and affable, brutal and independent, fatalistic and lacsadaisical.
I’d expect nothing less from such extreme personalities.
Both
host a variety of flora and fauna, both have been abandoned in
a sense; Golfito by the banana industry, Churchill by the military.
And both are being ‘brought back to life’ by ecotourism,
thankfully a little slowly.
 The
similarites struck me before we even neared Golfito. As we walked
the streets of Costa Rica’s capital, San Jose, down to Sansa
Airline’s one room terminal (they were recommend above competitors
because they ‘crash less’).
Anyway,
Sansa reminded me of Churchill and our own Calm Air International.
The plane even had the same colour combination – navy blue
and gold - there must be a market research paper out there that
says ‘navy means confidence, gold - excellence. A must for
any emerging airline.’
We
take a seat in the one room terminal wondering how far the similarities
go. The first flight delay answers my question.
On
the flight, we meet an older gentlemen, ecstatic about his newly
purchased ocean front property, bubbling over with excitement
about life on this humid frontier. I think of how wonderful and
magical Churchill and the north seemed when I first arrived. Friendly
people, exotic landscapes, wildlife, The snowstorms, frostbite,
frozen pipes and dead batteries come later. Enjoy it while you
can. Frontiers such as this test and break your will repeatedly,
only to throw you a bone of beauty just as you’re about
to give up.
 The
door opens and humidity washes into the plane. More heat hangs
just outside the door, offers a greeting that is languid and abrupt
all at once. Its ‘Hola’ sounds to me more like ‘holy
*&$#, its hot here’.
Just beyond this greeting, a wall of jungle towers up the mountains,
reminding us that it could just as easily reclaim this runway
should it deem necessary.
It
is so hot in fact, that our luggage has decided to arrive on the
afternoon flight, hiding out in the airconditioned hangar in San
Jose. Ah well, all part of travelling in the north, I mean south.
We
wish him well as he heads off to close the deal and wonder if
he will be chewed up or float along in characteristic American
bliss. His southern drawl still hangs in the air as we exchange
glances, finish our rum and coke, hiding in the shade of this
newfound lounge.
Playa
Nicuesa, another beach named for a long absent conquistador, is
about twenty minutes outside of Golfito. It is about the same
distance that Camp Nanuq, our home, is from Churchill. The primary
difference being that those twenty minutes are traversed by boat
in Costa Rica and by snowmobile in northern Canada.
 As
the boat pulls up, the only sign of the lodge is the dock: a skinny
finger sticking out of the jungle, poking the sweet gulf, ‘yes,
we are still here!’.
Playa
Nicuesa is another of many beautiful places named for people who
were never there. By most accounts, Diego de Nicuesa was a pompous
tyrant, a ragged, infallible conquistador not just tilting at
windmills but conquering and burning them, but he did this on
the Atlantic coast, not the Pacific. Such is life. The beauty
and peace of this place holds little in common with its namesake,
anyway, other than the innate ability to hold reality at arm’s
length.
Cerro
Nicuesa rises like a monstrous chia pet behind the lodge. While
not the highest peak in Costa Rica, it still dwarfs Churchill’s
highest peak: Ward Mountain at a staggering 30 metres. Mr. Ward
never made it to Canada either.
But we have made it here and walking up the path we are little
dazed, baffled by oversized flowers, and a handcrafted lodge that
suddenly pops out of the understory. We are warmly greeted, given
a tour of the grounds and the lodge,
While
Churchill is dry and cold, this is one of the wettest places in
Central America. Decaying stumps sport bloated tree rings, a year’s
worth of growth matches one hundred years of struggle along the
coast of Hudson Bay. For trees, location is everything it seems.
 The
jungle is impressive, its canopy lies 100-140’ above the
ground, a different world from the tundra. Walking through the
jungle, you are immersed in its gurgles and burps and farts, the
anonymous clang and rattle of constant growth and decay, so many
sounds from the crowded vegetation that they begin to speak with
one voice. Hard to fall asleep amidst the din but we do.
The
next morning, we awake to monkeys. Perched outside our suite,
they are well into their decadent morning routine - break open
fruit, take a few bites and cast it aside. Hands, feet and tails
work rhythymically and systematically working through branches,
leaves and vines. Occasionally, their big brown eyes offer a lingering,
voyeuristic stare into our room. Being tailless and relatively
hairless, we are easily overshadowed by today’s bounty of
fruit.
Another
morning, the Beast awakens us. An unearthly howl rips through
the jungle, tearing the understory, shaking the trees. My grade
seven reading of ‘Lord of the Pigs’ jumps up in my
still-waking brain; Coleman notes and all. I look around for Jack
and Piggy because the Beast is here, instead I find the alarm
clock which itself is still asleep.
The Beast as it turns out are more monkeys, a resident pack of
howler monkeys. When we eventually see one in person, it is diminutive,
peaceful and unassuming. A little ‘man’ with a big
voice.
In
fact, our ‘little man’ turns out to be a ‘little
woman’ named LuLu. She lives at the Santuario Silvestre
Wildlife Sanctuary, a five minute boat trip from Playa Nicuesa.
The preserve hosts a variety of rescued animals, ranging from
white-faced monkeys to a Crested Guan to an orange-chinned parakeet,
rescued from a crack-house in town and still sporting the vocabulary
to prove it.
 But
LuLu is the star. She cuddles and crawls on visitors, taking a
liking to my Carmen. Only 30cm in length, twice that including
her tail, she navigates heads and shoulders and arms as well as
she does branches and vines. Carmen cajoles her back to the front
lawn with the promise of dried cranberries; apparently the promise
of a ‘tip’ extends its appeal across species as well
as cultures.
It
is a rare opportunity to see jungle wildlife up close. As much
as animals in the arctic blend into the ‘nothing’,
the animals of the jungle blend into the ‘everything’.
Both hiding in plain sight, watching you well before you watch
them.
We
go early morning birdwatching, hike to and up waterfalls, paddle
beneath boa constrictors and green herons, relax and read and
swim. Each day, a life pair of Scarlet Macaws cruise high over
the beach, headed inland for the afternoon. Three hundred mated
pairs can be found in this chain of protected areas.
 This
is where we dip back into eight degrees of separation, the area
around Golfito like Churchill, abounds with wildlife, both adjacent
to vast stretches of protected areas.
Piedras
Blancas National Park, Golfo Dulce Forest Reserve and Corcovado
National Park link together around the parrots and poison dart
frogs of Golfo Dulce, Back in Churchill, Wapusk National Park
and the Churchill Wildlife Management Area protect polar bears
and peatlands. There is even a strange similarity in the names,
Wapusk translating to White Bear, Piedras Blancas to white stones.
But
then again, if Costa Rica is ‘Pura Vida’, Churchill
could easily be ‘Pura Silencia’, where Churchill is
stark and barren and beautiful, Costa Rica is lush and rolling
and loud. And then again, I may have been in the sun too long.
The
next morning, the black sand beach, deposits from ancient volcanoes,
burns my feet as I wobble my way to the surf. My gaze, drawn to
the horizon where sky and sea meet placid and pastel, soon returns
to the beach and Poquito, the lodge’s resident crocodile.
I glance over to make sure that he is still enjoying his afternoon
siesta. His crooked profile breaks the surface of his favourite
creek, so,
in the opposite direction, I do the same to the surf.
 Floating
in the Golfo Dulce, the thought cannot help but cross your mind
that ‘the gods must have peed in these waters’. This
inlet of the Pacific stays at 70F, warmer than most summer days
in Churchill, too nice to spend time thinking up creative descriptors,
so I gladly dip into the ‘warm and inviting’ cliche.
After
lunch, we kayak along the coast, a dolphin breaches once and is
gone. The afternoon winds are bringing clouds over the mountain.
Heeding the message, we turn and head back to the dock. The Sweet
Gulf is calling it a day, it needs some time alone. The clouds
finally burst and a warm rain escorts our final surge to the dock.
The gods have told us it is time for a margherita.
-
prepared by Kelsey Eliasson
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