Journey To Talamanca – Ken Beedle travels to the Talamanca area. Part I

We were 20km from the Bajo Chirripo and on a sloppy gravel road. To my left, Volcan Turrialba was heavily covered by dark clouds and the rain was relentless.

Not hard but it had been raining all week so we all knew what it meant or I thought I did; tough conditions on the ground, a wet camp and with the higher elevation colder than I wanted.

We reached our destination when Diego (the vice-president and leader of the group) directed me to turn left onto a narrow bridge. I was surprised the tires did not rub the side railings. I advanced perhaps 50 meters and stopped. We were in the jungle.

For the first time in four hours the three medical students in the back stopped talking. What I saw made me gulp and think I had taken on more than I could handle.

Cartago 7am

It was raining and cold, the wind was blowing and drove the rain under the covered entrance to a large store where we were loading equipment and supplies. Volunteers were packing a large truck that would carry the clothing, new boots, toys, salt and sugar and more to the indigenous people of Talamanca. I had been told what to expect as to the driving conditions, a shovel and tire chains were ready when the going got tough. The group varied in age from college students to a few close to my age.

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Each year the Asociacion Pro-Indigena Quircò played Santa to about 800 Talamanca Indian adults and children. We were to caravan from Cartago to a small village called Baja Chirripo then begin the trek into the back country of Costa Rica. The plan was to drive in, set up camp and organize the bags of clothing by age, sex and size and whatever else had been donated for distribution the next day. By 8am we were ready.

We had an assortment of vehicles. We had old 60s restored English Land Rovers, Toyota Land Cruisers with powerful diesel engines, over sized wheels, winches, heavy cable and chains, a Jeep that looked like it was ready to climb Everest, two Hyundai trucks, a 4 WD vehicle that I thought I saw on the streets in Moscow that was little more than a wind-up toy and my Xterra.

Mist, rain and fog made the drive intense through the mountain roads. A few kilometers past La Suiza we left the blacktop and drove on a hard-packed road. Volcan Turrialba was lost in the clouds but I could sense it’s mass. The temperature outside was 64F. We passed some areas where accumulated mud and water made us slow but for the most part we made steady progress.

Terror

In the years of roaming I had never thought I had stepped over the line. I had put my toes to the edge but never went pass what I thought I could handle. When I saw what was ahead of me, “oh s—!” definitely slipped through my lips. Perhaps sensing that I was over my head or seeing the mouth open, eyes bulging frog look on my panic stricken face, Diego said “don’t steer, let the car slide through the opening”.

At this point, he abandoned ship. He got out of the car leaving me and the three women in the back to die. I asked them if they wanted to stay or get out in the pouring rain. I was happy they decided to stay. I figured if I was serious injured I would have medical help or great mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

This was going to test not only the advertised toughness of the Xterra but whether its driver could make it down without peeing his pants. All I could see was the hard rain pushing six inches of orange colored mud down a cow path wide enough to slip a car through providing the side-mirrors were tucked in. It was the Costa Rican version of the famed X-rated Hannikan Ski Run in Austria. It was straight down.

One missed-step and you crashed and burned. The Xterra was paused on the edge like the front car of the Kamikaze roller coaster on its initial plunge into terror. I had no idea what was below because it disappeared into the jungle below.

Diego was motioning me to come forward and yelling “SLOW!” I had both feet on the brake! Finally, I nudged the Xterra forward then lost control, I was in the hands of God, Diego and the mountain. There was no stopping. We slid down the mountain with water and mud flying, passed through the gap without stripping any paint on the sides, bounced to the left then right before I saw the river. Diego was yelling that we were doing fine. Yah, right Diego.

It was pouring rain. I was thankful that I had brought my rain suit. The surrounding mountains where shrouded in clouds. A large metal building lay in front of me where a couple of 4x4s were struggling to make forward progress, I decided to back the car into a safe area. As more vehicles crossed the river finding a place to set up their camp was becoming a challenge. One car was sliding backwards and in danger of tipping over when rescuers with ropes and others pushing from behind got it to safer ground.

Eventually everyone made it in but if it continued raining would we make it out? I had my doubts. Indians were already arriving…a day early. A family of six came with plastic yards bags to protect themselves from the rain. Standing in six inches of mud I could see a few Indians high in the surrounding hills. I wondered what they thought of all these cars and trucks deeply imbedded in the muddy soup surrounding the meeting hall the group had built?

Incredibly everything we had brought was being ferried by drivers making the accent up to the truck that carried everything from a portable kitchen to the things the Indians would receive the next day. The 4x4s with chains made run after run until the truck was emptied.

How they trafficked the numerous trips up the hill without a head-on collision was beyond me. I busied myself documenting what I saw and keeping my equipment dry. The lenses kept fogging over. My rubber “botas” kept my feet dry but did not prevent me falling. I stood for five minutes under an eave of the building but could not wash the all the sticky mud from the rubber. It would have to wait until I got back… if I got back.

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Written by Ken Beedle who is a landscape photographer and retired Television Sales/Marketing Executive. Ken first visited Costa Rica in 1998 and later lived here for a few years, married a Tica and returned to the USA to take advantage of a business opportunity however, he promised to come back to Costa Rica and now he and his wife live in Cartago.

You can read part II of Ken Beedles’ adventure to Talamanca here.

Andrew Makarik

to@welovecostarica.com

Andrew Makarik is the main editor of WeLoveCostaRica, a fan of this sunny country. He is also a loving husband and a has a lovely daughter. By being a devoted family man and the biggest Costa Rica fan, he wants to make more people feel at home there. WeLoveCostaRica unites people and helps them find new home or a new travel destination. This website is a friendly community where everyone can find not only information, but also new friends and travel pals. Andrew is also passionate about IT and programming, so he himself maintains a friendly atmosphere in this cozy environment of WeLoveCostaRica.com.