Costa Jill

It’s my birthday and we’re on our way to the Treehouse with our Finca Bellavista pointer sheet in hand. Lots of instructions, directions and rules. Too many to remember. It begins:

You won’t find billboards or roadside signs that lead you to Finca Bellavista. We are not a full-service spa or a fancy hotel. You won’t find TVs in our cabinas, or electricity. What you will find is a rustic, yet comfortable retreat from the outside world to explore and enjoy on your own. We are in our infancy as a project. Though we keep our location somewhat of a secret from the outside world, we are more than happy to open our doors to you since you found us!

As per directions, we follow the coastal highway south from Dominical to the remote pueblo of Piedras Blancas and turn left at the only restaurant in town, Rancho Guiri Guiri. According to the pointer sheet, it serves the best fried chicken in the southern zone of Costa Rica, and since it’s lunchtime we decide to stop. I take the safe route and order fried chicken. B. checks out the ‘specials’ and takes a chance. “I’d like to try the tepezquintle.” This rodent-like animal has been the hunters’ favorite since homesteading days and here it is on the menu, probably illegally.

“Your horoscope this month must be telling you to take chances.” I laugh.

B. knows he’s made a mistake as soon as the cook serves us, “Whew, that smells really gamy.” And it taste that way too. He takes his medicine like a man and eats most of it. I try one bite and we chalk it up to experience.

Finca Bella Vista base camp

Back in the car we finally see the obscure sign for Finca Bellavista, follow the dirt road a few miles to the ‘base camp’ and pull into the only car parking area. There’s a community center with bathhouse, kitchen, dining area and game room surrounded by well-kept gardens and trails. We meet Erica, she shows us around and we gather our belongings for the long trek to our treehouse. Thank goodness we’re in good physical health. The trail is steep, wet, and treacherous, but the destination is worth every step. A handmade sign “Mis Ojos Treehouse”, points to a two-story wooden structure set high up among four giant rainforest trees, with just one more steep ladder-like staircase to heaven.

After showing us around and giving last minute instructions, Erica leaves us with, “dinner is served at seven back at base camp.”

She’s gone before I realize. “Oh shit. We’re gonna have to walk all the way back there.”

“And in the pitch dark!”

We’ve signed up for meals instead of cooking in the treehouse. A big mistake?

We don’t want to think about it right now. We sit on the balcony and soak in the exciting new adventure of being an integral part of the majestic jungle hundreds of feet below and above us. “We’re so lucky – or rather you are. You win stuff all the time.”

“You’re right, my son used to be the lucky one. He won almost every time he entered a contest, from dinners for two to Caribbean cruises. Guess it runs in the family.”

But luck isn’t all of it. Whether you believe in horoscopes or not, taking risks and making changes is what makes our lives rich and exciting. Last week we took surfing lessons, my low bid at a silent auction for a dog adoption group. And now here we are at Finca Bella Vista in the treetops of the Costa Rican jungle drinking coffee. In our faces, the insistent sound and sight of the waterfall intertwines with sweet and raucous birdsongs, and fluttering blue iridescent flashes of Morpho butterflies.

It’s 2010. Twenty-Ten – don’t you like the sound of that? In honor of the new decade I’m putting out of my mind that it’s been a month since posting a blog. Let’s start anew without resolutions. They just cause stress. And thus begins my recollection of a first in a lifetime experience, up in a tree house.

You’d think that the rainy season would be the perfect season for the Rain Forest Aid concert on the Osa Peninsula of Costa Rica, but hardly anyone came and most of those have gone home – the ones who could slip and slide their cars out of the parking lot. At the finale, the rain pours down on the soccer field splashing mud up to our asses. Barely audible through the pounding rain I hear, “And now, the big raffle prize! The ultimate tree house experience, a weekend stay at Finca Bellavista goes to …… Jill Green.”

“Wow! I did it.” My persistence has paid off. This obscure concert, its meager attendance dwindled by constant rain, has raised my chances of winning the big prize by a huge percentage. First I had to find the booth with the raffle box in which to stuff my ticket stub. Even the concert (dis)organizers sent me on a wet and wild goose chase. “Bellavista? Never heard of them. Try the bar tent; they oughta know.”

Pushing through the only dry crowd, I ask the bartender.

“Never heard of Bellavista, but try the booths out on the edge of what’s left of the soccer field.”

Finally I hit paydirt – a small box plastered with a Bellavista pamphlet, a smiling young couple behind it. “This must be the place offering the tree house adventure?”

“Yes.”

“I had a hard time finding you guys. Even the organizer, who lives in a tree house, didn’t know there was a tree house vacation raffle.”

“Yea. Pretty unorganized,” the guy introduces himself, “Hi, I’m Matt. You’ve got a good chance of winning.”

“And I’m Erica. Hardly anybody’s found the way over here to stuff their stubs.”

My  on-again-beau is by my side when I  deliver from the heart, “It’s for two. You wanna go with me?”

“Of course.” His grin becomes a kiss.

“How about when we both return to Costa Rica in the fall?”

“What a perfect place for a rendezvous after an extended separation,” he twinkles.

Tune in next time for the encounter.

Sean, Matt, Ruby Kim

Sunset from Jazzy's Riverhouse

Jazzy’s River House 27870310, that’s the place in Dominical, Costa Rica where the locals go for great music, food, art instruction, surf lessons, yoga, massage, theater, and friendship. Ruby Kim and Steve have opened their arms to the community for the last ten years. And they’ve added something new. Pizza.

Ruby Kim is like Old Faithful, bubbling and spouting regularly with creative new ideas. Her latest venture came about when she, Steve and friend Eduardo, who’s worked in many a pizza parlor, started the dream process.

Eduardo. “Hey, we could build one of those pizza ovens.”

Ruby K. “Like a kiln.”

Steve. “Let’s do it.”

And they did. Now it sits under a bamboo rancho all set about with Ruby’s designs: palm weavings, rock paths and driftwood benches on the Rio Baru.

Oven men Eduardo and Steve

The oven is glaring out at Eduardo and Steve in his pizza apron (the next creative adventure story), waiting for a pizza to be slid off the homemade wooden paddle into its fiery mouth. Friends and neighbors have been invited to bring the fixin’s depending on their pantries and capabilities: sauce, veggies, condiments, meat, cheese dough and firewood. We novices get cooking lessons. No, at my age, I’ve never made a pizza from scratch.

Pizza virgin Jill

Pizza virgin Nancy

Ruby, with that great smile of hers, takes one look at my platter of eggplant parmigiana, “It’s too heavy. You can’t put all that eggplant in big chunks on the pizza crust, it’ll fall through.” Then to Nancy, another first timer, “A little oil on top, flour on the paddle.”

Nancy. “The closest I’ve been to making pizza is taking them out of the box and into the oven.”

Steve. “Tell ‘em not to forget the cornmeal.”

Eduardo. “Or they’re gonna stick.”

There’s a barter system going among good friends, but Ruby Kim and Steve bear the expense of the extras and they’re not rich.

Nancy. “Put out a tip jar.”

Jill. “You gotta pay for expenses or make a little money, so we can keep coming to these great parties.”

Bob starts right in creating his pizza. He’s a chef already. Charlie mumbles up to the paddle, slaps a glob of dough down and starts kneading. Ruby has to pressure me to let go and sling my pizza dough above my head. I’ll jump off a cliff, but neither am I brave enough to project my pizza off the paddle into the fire. I let Steve and Eduardo, the oven experts, do that.

Jungle bunnies

Lorena's games

While all this preparation and oven-watching is going on the jungle bred children of all ages are climbing trees and wrestling, laughing, monkeying around on the grass under the easy supervision of smiling Laraina. She only reels them in to color or play quiet games when they become too rowdy.

I get my pizza in the oven first as the test case. The kids are starving by this time. The oven is so hot it takes only two minutes to cook to perfection. And it’s gorgeous toasty, brown and bubbling. Cut up into small pieces we feed the little guys first. My pizza parmigiana is wolfed down by the pack. What a way to get kids to eat eggplant! And they love it. The rest of the varied and wondrous pizzas follow at five minute intervals until everyone is deliciously full of food, drink, camaraderie, sharing, fun and games. Fourteen pizzas in all come out of the oven with the expertise of Eduardo, Steve and Ruby Kim, and at least half of these are made by pizza virgins.

At the next “Sewing Circle” I reminisce, “What a fun, yummy party!”

And Ruby K brainstorms, “This could be Jazzy’s next venture.”

“Right, you could cater pizza dinners.”

“Clients could just enjoy the party, or they could learn how to make pizzas from scratch to dessert.”

“Just figure in your costs and a fair profit. It’s a great idea.”

So, I’m asking all of you Costa Rica Southern Zone tourists and residents alike, do you like this idea? If they build it, will you come???? Please pass this on and comment on my blog costajill.com or Facebook. Look for more Jazzy’s Pizza Party photos in my Facebook album. Please share this blog with your other Costa Rican friends. Or email jazzysriverhouse@hotmail.com.

Pizza virgin Janice

Nicole, Elizabeth, Nicole and kids

Letter to the Editor

Sarasota Herald Tribune

By Jill Green

Re: Backpacker’s Guide to Costa Rica printed Sunday 8/16/2009

Letter to the Editor  in reply to an article “A Backpacker’s Guide to Costa Rica” in the Sun. Aug 16, 2009 edition

In her quest to find friends to party with, Anna Salinas lost sight of her original dual purpose of teaching English to Costa Ricans and learning something about the culture of this friendly Latin American country

If she wanted “the perfect untouristy spot” why did she pick the three most visited tourist destinations in the country, Monteverde Cloudforest, Manuel Antonio and Arenal Volcano? There are many other less visited attractions including miles of totally isolated beaches, mountains and rainforests.

At odds? One the one hand she’s wanting a non-touristy, see the country and culture vacation. On the other she wants to hang in the bars with her young backpacker friends. Guess which side wins. I appreciate youth, wanting to bond with peers, and party down. Maybe if she had traveled to small villages and met some of the wonderful warmhearted families, she would have experienced some of the simple pleasures and friendly culture of the country whose motto is “Pura Vida”.

True, I am biased after having lived in Costa Rica on and off for fifteen years. Yes, there are isolationist expats living locked in gated communities, thieves, and slums just as there are in the United States and every country in the world. But Costa Rica is still the gem of Central America with its working system of national health care, no army and a literacy rate higher than the U.S.

I begin to see a pattern here. First there were the warm sheets of rain falling on my head as I danced happily in the mudhole that was the Rainforest Aid Concert.  Then back in my neighborhood rain forest, a friend and I are hiking with the dogs when a tormenta of vast proportions and consequences strikes. Rumbling thunder escalates into a full-fledged war we can’t see somewhere beyond the giant trees. Night comes too early. Mist thickens to fog. Tina says her knee hurts and turns back. I’ve finally gotten out into the primary jungle and want to continue. It is so eerie, ethereal, exhilarating.

Now flashes of lightning break through. Warm forceful rain falls in splats then buckets. This is no slow progression. I call the dogs to turn back. Cookie leaps, runs and jumps in excitement. Koda cringes and gets all mixed up in my feet. Could there be two such totally different labs? A bomb burst of lightning hits behind my right shoulder lifting me off the ground. My feet, like pistons, are already pumping when I hit the ground running. Though I feel and smell the electricity I’m more afraid of a massive tree crashing down on me. The strikes continue, the rain pounds, Cookie thrills, Koda cowers, and we all run like hell until we hit the open road. I lift my arms and face to the sky and laugh wildly at experiencing nature unleashed. 

The next day we realize our water source has been obstructed, probably from a fallen tree or landslide. My daughter Nicole and grandson Sebastian go down to the spring to see if they can rectify the problem. Another pattern arises. Cookie slides to the forefront again. So soon after committing chicken murder there’s an attempt made on her life. Is it the law of the jungle, Darwin’s natural selection, both? Tune in next time for more Cookie Crumbs.

I’m returning to the Osa Peninsula in Costa Rica for the Rain Forest Aid 2009 concert June 19 – 21. The festival aims to raise $2 million for rain forest awareness, protection and regeneration and potentially fund a sustainable landfill for the Osa Peninsula in the next five years. That’s a massive goal, but whatever they reach will help save one of the world’s most biodiverse areas, which includes Corcovado National Park. For more information go to the website http://rainforestaid09.com.

Ten years ago two friends and I traveled down to the Osa for one of the most disastrous vacations I’ve ever had. For the ten year anniversary I have edited an almost memoir, The Last Resort, I wrote to commemorate that event and am posting it here. I will also be blogging about the concert. Check in. Send me information you’d like to share. Have fun! Dance. Listen. Learn from the indigenous people. Buy handcrafted items. Help save our environment.

RIO MORETE

The morning rains are over and the afternoon cloud cover hasn’t smothered us yet. “Let’s go to the river!” I suggest. 

“Oh, yes!” Sebastian jumps for joy. He’s still young enough at “almost eight” to do that. We pack a bag, call the pups Koda and Cookie, and set off down the steep jungle trail to the Rio Morete at the bottom of the property. I love having this time one-on-one with my grandson free from outside influence. I can be a kid again with him – laughing, singing, acting silly.

The dogs splash first into the crystal pool, legs outstretched, ears a-flapping. Sebas dives in upstream and rides the chute to greet them. I balance on the edge of the a small waterfall downstream and dive into the pool below. “Oh Fufi, let’s run the rocks to the big waterfall at the grotto. I’ll bet we can still get underneath it.” The rainy season has just started so the water levels are still manageable and the current is not yet at the “swept away” level.

“Let’s go. I’ll race you.” Of course he always beats me. He moves like a monkey perfectly balanced a bit forward and light on his feet. He’s been doing this since two years old. We pass through the impenetrable looking sheet of waterfall and pretend we live in its cave, then break through and take another slide to the grotto. The whole area below the falls is circled by sky reaching smooth grey rock carved into small circular pools. 

Sebas and I swim into one of them – like a miniature Jacuzzi. I see something undulating between us. “Oh, shit!” just comes out. In an adrenal rush, I grab Sebas and propel us out of there like bullets shot from a gun. “It’s a snake!” 

He’s excited. The scientist in him gets the best of his fear. “I wanna see it.” From a safe distance we stand on rocks and there it is. Still there. It obviously feels at home. We remember the details for identification later – 4 ft. long, black, skinny, narrow head. Doesn’t look poisonous but I’m not taking chances. What a story we have to tell when we get home. Swimming with a snake. We’ll add this one to our life list of animals of Costa Rica.

Sebastian and Koda on the rocks

Everyone’s eventual question concerning my life in Cost Rica is “What do you do all day?”  They assume that life in an exotic tropical paradise must be different than theirs. A fairy tale? One without stress? Well it’s not. But it is different. Here’s a little slice of it.

• At dawn the howler monkeys do their alpha male “Don’t try to join my band and eat our breakfast. Go find your own.” aggressive give and take hooting. No more sleeping for me. 
• I get up and feed our two new mostly Lab puppies, grind some  fresh organic Costa Rican coffee beans, their rich aroma blending with the heavy loveliness of the ylang ylang drifting over the balcony.
• Drinking my coffee on my balcony aerie overlooking the Pacific Ocean’s Whale’s Tail (see my blog photo) is the perfect and only start to my every day. 
• Within minutes the sunrise-washed blue sky turns gray with rushing clouds. Rumbling thunder shakes a huge rain down in front of me. The rainy season is upon us.
• Will I make it down the mountain road to yoga class before  it turns into a gooey clay mess that turns the tires into slick glazed doughnuts? Nope. My heart pounds as I take my foot off the brake, go with the slide, and miss falling in the ditch by inches. Can’t go back up until things dry out.
• One must always keep a backpack in the car filled with necessities in case you can’t get home (whether bad roads or broken down car) – towel, toothbrush, sunscreen, hat, bathing suit, book . Add a hammock and surf board and you’re covered for awhile.
• It’s still wet after yoga. With time to kill I stop at the bomba (gas station) to fill up, but the gas tanker has been delayed too. Maybe manana. This Central American country is a drastic mix of Third World and modern. In the tropical heat everyone is at least two hours late. Ah, except the buses. They’re always on time. Don’t ask why. 

Well, that’s the morning. Can you tell that patience is truly a virtue to cultivate if you’re not a native. Ticos have it naturally.

Having returned to the back jungles of Costa Rica, I’ve had to deal with no and slow technology, and other losses in my life slowing me down. I’m clawing my way out. Just got hooked to internet at my house – a feat of unusual difficulty. Yippy. I’m ready to roll on, though not speed. 

I open my computer to  a writer friend’s announcement of a blog posting.  She’s been out of commission for awhile too.  she explained her reasons for having the blog and all it entailed, from why she started writing to how she got published. We’re members of the same excellent writing group. I loved the story, especially since she’s a good writer and friend. Check it out at reginaperry.com

So I’m reading along and nodding my head, oh yes, oh yes. I’ve gone through the same evolution or mutation. Started writing memoirs. They are so cathartic and freeing, but not for publication. The truth can be insulting, incriminating, hurtful, embarrassing. First I tried just changing the names to protect the innocent. Hah, that doesn’t work. Then I changed the places. Not enough. Now the characters. I now call my writing historical fiction. I can add, pad and subtract from the truth, but it’s still based on it. I’ve got a good group of Costa Rican stories finished or almost. But patience. I’ll soon be ready to try for that publication, too. 

And thanks Regina Perry for getting my ball rolling again.

Yes, three dogs lost in three months.

• First it was Matu on Xmas Eve – a quick growing cancer. I was having a crappy holiday to start with.

• Then Buck did himself in. Those damn black labs are the biggest chow hounds they lose all sense of reason. Ate a content-filled plastic bag that got stuck and damaged his organs beyond repair.

• My damn burst on the last one, Foxy, who was run down on the road and flung over the cliff. 

• The news was too much, especially when added to the recent  loss of other friends of the human kind. I cried. I grieved. 
• I’d been putting off editing my story “Puppy Love” for the last month to post on my blog costajill.com. Such a procrastinator. I worked through my grief and got it posted.
• I offer it as a memorial to these wonderful friends – both dog and human.