We were headed to the airport to meet up with my Dad and his wife Ali, who had agreed to journey across the ocean (with chequebook in hand) to help us through the last week or so in style. This included the hire of a 4x4 car, which we picked up and I drove through the suburbs of San Jose to our first hotel. It occurred to me how useful this one would have been in the volcanic, mountainous and windswept landscapes of Patagonia, but at the same time I felt pride in the little grannymobiles which had sufficed. After a pleasant night in the outskirts of town (we didn't go into the centre at all) we headed to the Arenal volcano district, and to some beautiful little cabanas with a view of the volcano itself. It had been puffing sparks and smoke until a few years ago, but has now stopped. The area is still quite lovely though, and we spotted various Toucans, motmots* and monkeys from our terraces as we whiled away the days in a markedly relaxed way. The volcano still provides hot thermal waters, and we had a lovely evening in a local spa, which despite a lot of theme-parky fibreglass 'natural' structures was pretty magical, especially when illuminated with coloured lights after the sun went down.
*oh bugger did I become a twitcher?
My ear infection had begun to subside, only to be replaced by an increasing pain in a couple of fillings which had given me some trouble before leaving the UK. Having enjoyed relatively good health throughout the trip I was dismayed to now be the whinger once Dad turned up, so I tried to push through it. However, after waking one morning in intense pain Hes made an emergency dental appointment for me, and thank god she did as the dentist proceeded, there and then, with root canal treatment. Either Costa Rican dentists are amazing, or everyone is a wuss, because the treatment itself really wasn't all that painful. More painful than the drill was the sound of the others in the waiting room, laughing and joking at my discomfort. But I had made them spend a morning of their holiday in a dentist's waiting room, so the last (slightly numb) laugh was mine.
From the Arenal we drove into the cloud forests of Monteverde, and to another beautiful hotel (the old man really does have his uses). Hes was, once again, as if in a sweet shop, beavering round with binoculars in hand, adding to the 'bird list'. She even persuaded the other two to join her on an early morning bird tour, leaving me to have a lie in and relaxed breakfast (as comment above). The highlight of our stay in the area was a morning of zip wiring in the forest. It is something I have done before, but not between branches, through the canopy where exotic birds and howler monkeys were mooching about.
Our final days in Costa Rica were to be spent by the coast, on the Caribbean side. In whichever country we have been- Venezuela, Columbia, Panama or Costa Rica, the Caribbean coasts seem to have more in common with each other than with their respective countries. Puerto Viejo had this laid back character, and we sent a few days ambling from pool to beach bar, taking it deeply easy, except for the night we were woken by a 5.6 magnitude earthquake, whose epicentre was just a few miles away. And of course we had the old man's birthday, when we hired quads and went out to the nearby forests, through rivers and down muddy banks, and spotting sloths on trees on the way back. I think they had a great time and it was perfect for us to have them over- not only for the rather higher standard of accommodation than we could otherwise have expected; the last week of the trip could have been a pretty melancholy affair, but they helped make the transition via a nice relaxing holiday-sort-of-vibe. And we only argued once (over driving, what else).
Our ship was delayed coming into port, so we had an extra day of the horizontal Caribbean lifestyle, after having said a grateful goodbye to Dad and Ali, who were taking the sensible, airborne route back to the UK. A day later we stepped on to our final bus, bound for Puerto Limon and the HS Schubert.
It is on the good ship that I am sitting, writing this. I must say, having been on board for twelve days, I have not fallen in love with this ship as I did the Aristote nine months ago. It is a smaller vessel, and we don't have a deck outside our cabin as before- it is a long walk down to the bow to get some fresh air. Our fellow passengers, a retired Swiss couple called Nutti and Schnitzel, are, I am sorry to say, extremely tiresome. I don't think their names are actually Nutti and Schnitzel- but similar, and that'll do. I don't like to be rude but amongst other grievances they cleared the slop chest of toblerone bars, even though THEY KNEW we wanted one. It is as if they believe themselves to be somehow entitled to it. The captain is a nice Romanian chap, but perhaps a little too nice- more 'laid back entertainer' than 'boss', and the whole ship has a sort of lackadaisical, slightly shabby feel as a result. Perhaps I wouldn't say this as a crew member, but I felt the slightly more structured environment of the Aristote made for a better atmosphere on board.
Our mess man doesn't have the uncanny, Jeevesish anticipation of our every wish as Albert did on the other ship. Mind you, I shouldn't moan; our first mess man was a mess- he left us after just a couple of days on board, which was a complete blessing. He was quite something, a Malaysian chap with the most intense stare I have ever been subjected to, a sharp, aggressive tone and a little girly giggle. He also had a complete aural block between the words 'potatoes' and 'rice'- an unfortunate affliction as this was presented as the only choice we ever had at mealtimes. Even the double-syllable-deficit didn't seem to help. I am normally loath to criticise people's English, especially when I speak none of their lingo, but this chap would react quite angrily as if we were being horribly unclear. He said it was because of our 'slang'. He went ashore when we had crossed the Caribbean and reached Jamaica.
Ah yes, Jamaica: we had half a day to spend in Kingston. Hester was mad keen on going to the botanic gardens, so that was first up. Personally I don't see the point in visiting botanic gardens, except perhaps on a grey Sunday in England. It seems to me their point is to exhibit lots of exotic plants, and so they all end up looking much the same, exhibiting the same plants which are, apparently, universally exotic (palms, orchids, that sort of stuff). Hester labours under the (nobly optimistic) misapprehension that they might be filled with studiously labelled endemic species. She copes with the consistent disappointment very well. I would have perhaps kept my cynicism locked up and stayed away from the place, but I was not keen on leaving Hes to wander the streets of Kingston alone so I went along (it was fine, though on a couple of occasions things did feel a little 'spicy'). Unfortunately, my agony was prolonged when we next visited the Bob Marley museum and I got to hear how amazing reggae music is and what a Legend the man was. My lip was practically bleeding with all the biting. Happily we then headed to the bar owned by Usain Bolt ('Tracks and Records') and finally to a famous bar in the town centre. Both had the feel of a TGI Fridays, yet were by all account the trendiest places in town. Even a few hours in a place can give you a sense of how different it is.
And since then we have been on the boat, making our way out of the Caribbean, across the Bermuda Triangle and into the North Atlantic. I have been a little rude about the boat, as it compares with our earlier experience. However, I still would not want to be ending this experience in any other way. Our days are spent reading, doing crosswords and playing games on the ipad in between lengthy bouts of whale watching at the bow- which is a wonderful way to pass time: we have seen several huge beasts blowing and gliding along the surface. Hes has also been scouring the skies to take her 'bird-list' to the magical 300; I suspect she is inventing subspecies of the seabirds we see. For my part I have been taking a stiff Martini on to the top deck of an evening to watch the sun set. It is a stunning sight with so many different types and arrangements of clouds within one eyeful. The closer ones, just above the sea and in front of the orange horizon, are dark brown and purple puffs, whilst those elongated streaks high in the stratosphere, still completely illuminated by the sun, glow bright white in the blue sky, looking for all the world like a renaissance depiction of heaven. Others float in between like UFOs, slowly sliding across the sky. It is hard to describe, but the sense of distance, and of nature at its simplest and rawest, is still probably the most impressive thing I have seen in all the nine months. Perhaps I should try it without the martini and see if it is as impressive.
As we have sailed west, the sky and sea have turned from rivals in blueness to black and silver, and at the bow, where we sweltered in the Caribbean sun, we now go out in boots, woolly hats and ponchos, and feel the biting wind of the British summer. It is amazing how fast things have changed even during this slowest of journeys. I had thought this would be a time to reflect on the last nine months, but it has been a bit distressing to do so- this journey coming to an end is a pretty awful feeling. Yet the cold wind feels strangely welcome, and for all the sadness I'm feeling that the best nine months of my life are over, I now can't wait to get back and see my mum at Hull docks- closely followed by catching up with all my friends and family, meeting my niece and enjoying a pint of warm beer.
