Natural Traveler Magazine Winter 2022

The following day, I take the famous Jungle Train down to Limón, part of a side hustle, accompanying a red-haired journalist with the alabaster face of an Italian masterwork, who needs a guide. This is a favorite road trip for me, not only for the wonderful scenery, but the area is supposed to be loaded with sloths, a creature I’ve always longed to see.

We have a wonderful morning’s ride past coffee plantations, the rich brown earth bursting with green rows, packed fields of tall yellow corn, modest homes with tidy yards, cars parked under the portico, clean, smiling children waving along the tracks. Although there is a special tourista coach, I take my companion into the regular cars with the daily commuters: families and school children, book bags and parcels spilling out into the aisles, produce stuffed into string bags. It’s a typical day: in the luggage rack several chickens are tied together clucking irritably, an old man sits dozing, a cage full of small parrots on his lap. The Ticos love to show off their country, and today is no different. Several people insist on giving up their seats so we Gringos can sit on the side with the best view.

As we walk around the port city sightseeing, nothing seems changed from my last visit: streets pinched and potholed, the alleyways littered, municipal services sporadic. The one hotel I see is unthinkable; we’re not planning to stay anyway. But on the corners, down by the bus terminal and around the park, these marvelously mixed people laugh and strut, their voices floating lightly with an inherited Caribbean lilt bubbling in the ear. And why not? I don’t think people can starve in this fertile country (Costa Rica means rich coast): I mean, throw seeds out the window and tomorrow there’s a banana tree.

Later on, waiting for my Renaissance Madonna in the gazebo in the town square, I suddenly realize that while we have been enjoying ourselves, we’ve missed the last bus to the capital – there is no train. I quickly check my peso balance when I gradually realize that what appears to be a three-toed sloth is clicking imperceptibly past on its long nails, sniffing the air curiously, tail curled neatly behind him: finally -the living embodiment of my lifestyle. Happy, satisfied, I lazily return to counting up my currency, praying for enough to hire a car back to the capital. The sloth tiptoes on, and on, and on, followed, to my amazement, by the missing travel agent, who is coming up on the outside of the creature, lurching across the square like Bogart in “The Treasure of Sierra Madre,” looking for a touch. With a nauseous twist of his head, he recognizes through his alcoholic mist that it’s me in that gazebo, and before I can react, disappears down the street, never to be seen again. And, what might be considered an even worse thing, the sloth is gone as well.

I finish counting my pesos, wondering idly if what just took place actually happened. This fantasy is interrupted by my companion returning from her shopping excursion, and I take her in search of the produce market. We’re in luck -- a local farmer is driving up to the capital tonight and will take us.

Now safely returned to Key Largo, relaxing over an ice cold beer, amusedly watching a group of American tourists sidle in, impatient for service, thrilled and apprehensive to be in this notorious place of international intrigue and romance and danger.

The scene in the bar grows more feverish in the late night heat. Even the rum bottles lining the shelf behind the bar seem to chatter to each other. The bartenders