We have met a guy named Curtis who invites us along for a
day trip in a car he has rented. Curtis
is a fascinating guy, travelling for 7 months from Alaska to Argentina. I first saw him in the airport in El
Salvador, his presence intriguing even without the walking stick in his hand,
and I found myself drawn to him. He
popped up again at the Coca Cola bus station in Costa Rica. We ran into him again in Montezuma. When we happened upon him in Manuel Antonio
National Park, we finally got his name. “I’ll
probably see you in the next town,” he joked.
And we did. So it wasn’t
surprising we saw him in La Fortuna and we were happy to accept his invitation
for a day adventure around Lake Arenal.
The car Curtis rents is like a ¾’s size prototype of the BMW
Mini before it even existed, with tires that look like the smallest version of
a legitimate tire available to the public. It is cute; endearing almost - provided you
don’t let thoughts of how crashing into a bus or a truck will disintegrate your
endearing cuteness in a nano-second.
We drive off, Cool Curtis at the wheel, headed for a ride
around Lake Arenal. The road is bumpy,
full of potholes, and we are jostled around as though we’re riding a galloping
horse on ether, occasional jolts sending our heads bobbing towards the roof. We see a sign for The Butterfly Gardens and
turn around to check it out, lured by the ubiquitously painted blue morpho
butterfly, its bright blue wings standing out amidst the intense green foliage
in jungle surround sound.
We pay the fee and walk in towards the enclosure of fences. A pricking sensation hits my leg and I instinctively
slap it, looking down to see a smear of blood and splayed mosquito body parts. The big, now-splayed mosquito and additional
pricking sensations are incentive to squirm into my unappealing, thin,
polyester jacket, an item naively brought before I figured out that polyester
and humidity are generally not friends.
An exotic flower welcomes us into what is truly a “butterfly
garden”. We ready our cameras, snapping photos of one after another flower planted
to entice butterflies and humans flitting about Costa Rica in the same
uncertainty and tipsy delight. We meander along the dirt paths, our attention
focused on a delicate flower then suddenly distracted by the elaborate petals
and bursting stems of another. We each
take turns snapping shots of the same flowers.
“We should keep moving, Na,” my brother says. He is right.
The mosquitos are finding us to be easy targets as we stall, motionless
for that mediocre flower picture. I can hear
my brother occasionally slapping himself. We haven’t even made it to the butterflies
yet, which are up ahead in a large, completely fenced in area. We attempt to pick up the pace but are both
continually distracted along the way by the tropical plants and flowers
appealing to our primal sense of beauty.
Finally making it to the enclosure, we step through the gate
and see many butterflies in orange, white, yellow, brown, and even blue. Some of them have intricate patterns on their
wings and others are solid flashes of pigment, winking through the plants and
bits of imprisoned sky.
The butterflies are more challenging to photograph in their frenetic
approach to flying. It doesn’t help that
our ability to aim and steady the camera is compromised by a duet of cacophonic
mosquito slapping.
We continue to try as though we are avid butterfly hunters
or professional photographers trying to get that perfect shot and not the
wandering amateurs that we are. I miss
shot after shot of uncooperative butterflies and become determined to try to
capture one. My brother is behind me and urging me to keep
moving forward occasionally. As I stall
yet again for another photograph attempt, he sees and tries to protect me from
the mosquitos swarming around my shoulders, swatting at them in futile attempts
to dissuade them from their natural born duty to feast on genetically optimal blood
like mine.
He reminds me to keep moving and, in agreement, I try to
move more quickly until once again a beautiful distraction stops me in my
tracks. I am focused on my latest
conquest when suddenly, my brother’s voice sounds out with none of the
traditional calm he is known for. It
comes out a half octave higher than usual, panicky, and urgent. With an edge of hysteria, he loses all
composure and shouts, “FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, NA, RUN! RUUUUUUN!”
His warning would have made more sense if the Volcano was erupting,
but no, he was referring to the mosquitos of Costa Rica. In a picturesque Butterfly Garden. In the
middle of Paradise.
We make it back to the car where Cool Curtis has coolly sat
this one out and continue along the bad roads around Lake Arenal. After a ridiculous amount of ricocheting and
bouncing, I insist on giving driving a shot, believing my years of San
Francisco driving skills with swerves and maneuvers are fierce competition for
the potholes in the road. As we bounce
along with the same ferocity as before, our comical undulations of alternate
bobbing beginning to look like a synchronized, motorized tick we have all
developed in the jungle, I realize my driving techniques, or anyone’s for that
matter, are no match for the Costa Rican roads.
The potholes are unavoidable.
Being from San Francisco, I just take them faster. Bounding along like out of control kangaroos,
we laugh; I laugh so hysterically hard that I can barely drive.
We make it back in one piece. Why shouldn’t we? After all, we survived the Butterfly Gardens.
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