So…it’s with a heavy heart and a
different perspective that I continue this blog today. For better or for worse, I’ll be
looking at photographs and recalling moments from our trip, thinking “am I
living this trip to its fullest?” or “did I really see everything I wanted to
see and experience all I wanted to experience?” I would like to use this kind
of thinking to guide me on future travel endeavors, and as a perspective on
past experiences. I’ll be thinking
also of my friend Glenn, who never passed up an opportunity to see and
experience it all.
And so, although this is slightly
out of chronological order, I must write the entry about zip-lining.
After our fun, humid, buggy,
conversation-filled days with our friends at the house in Manuel Antonio, we drove
away from the Pacific coast towards the interior. We ventured through a small park with swinging bridges and
waterfalls called Rainmaker. I was
determined to conquer my fear of heights, or at least not be ruled by it, so I
steeled myself to hike up to and across as many of those bridges as
possible. My son swore he would
not try to make them swing when I was crossing, and I managed to hold on with a
death grip and not look down into the tops of trees. I survived, sweaty-palmed and hyperventilating, but
triumphant as we splashed around in the waterfall pools afterwards. I actually had gotten to enjoy some of
the views from the many crisscrossing bridges.
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| Friendly waterfall |
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| Our friends taking a photo at the overlook |
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| Maybe I wasn't the only one afraid to look down... |
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| The overlook from Rainmaker |
As we arrived in La Fortuna, next
to the now-dormant Arenal Volcano, the conversation turned to zip-lining. My son was excited, my friends and
their kids were enthusiastic, my husband was curious. I was 100% uninterested. Why would you voluntarily swing on a wire, careening without
control towards a platform in the canopy that is so far away you can’t even see
it when you jump? No, I told my
friends and family, you go ahead.
I have my Kindle and a cabin in the rain. And if I get bored, there’s a chocolate tour across the road
I could join. Mmm, chocolate.
But our contact and adventure tour
guy, Johnny—an outdoorsy Canadian with a decidedly political bent, giving us
his speech, complaining that the benefits of tourism were bypassing the Costa
Ricans’ pocketbooks—did his best to sell the zip-lining as a “great way to see
the rainforest without trampling all over it.” His tone was friendly but not pushy. He said if I really wasn’t interested,
I could probably “hang out” at the tour headquarters and look at pictures of
people zip-lining, or do a quick hike down to the river and waterfall nearby.
Hmm. I suddenly had a picture in my head: my son, my husband, my
friends, all returning from zip-lining, exhilarated, happy, proud. And probably bonded to one another in a
way that I never could be, never having participated in their adventure. A schoolgirl, knee-jerk response won
out: I simply didn’t want to be
left out. I paid my ticket to do
zip-lining; if I backed out now, it would be a heavy forfeit.
For the next 24 hours, I tried to
be nonchalant. I avoided thinking
about the actual event, focusing instead on making sure we had the schedule for
the next few days worked out, making sure we had enough cash and groceries,
finding a place to watch the Netherlands-Argentina game in the World Cup. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. Breakfast was bright and early. We walked up to reception and sat at
the tables on the patio. The señor
brought us plates of cut-up fruit, then coffee, then fruit juice, then huge
plates of fried eggs, gallo pinto
(the ubiquitous pinto bean-rice mixture served with all breakfasts, and often
lunch and/or dinner), and toasted Wonder Bread with margarine generously spread
on top. Normally a staunch
believer in a sturdy breakfast, I had to swallow hard to get my few bites to go
down. The thought of smelling
coffee and greasy eggs, let alone eating them, was making me queasy. I guess I would rather dangle above the
canopy on an empty stomach. The
van to pick us up was late, and I was trying not to run back to the cabin to
pee every five minutes from nerves.
Why was I doing this? I was
afraid of everything about it: heights, falling, pain and discomfort,
my own physical strength and balance (or lack thereof), humiliation and public
ridicule…and the list kept getting longer in my head.
We finally arrived, and were part
of a group of around 50 people being herded into a large shed, issued hard hats
and heavy belts, then seated for a lesson on how not to die while zip-lining.
There were to be twelve lines in all; the first three were “practice” runs;
number seven was the longest, almost a kilometer long. We would be hanging by a double-hooked
cable from the zip-line. Our
“brake” was a strange-looking leather glove with a reinforced channel into
which the zip-line fit. We would
slow down by leaning back and squeezing.
Not too much, of course, because if you get stuck on the line, you have
to turn yourself around and pull yourself hand-over-hand to the end. If we went too fast, there was a
double-stopping system at the end of the zip-line—essentially a knot at the end
of the line—that would prevent us from ramming into the end; however, the
system wouldn’t prevent you from the jarring impact of hitting the knot.
My nervousness increased. My mouth was dry. I found it hard to concentrate on what
the guide was saying. Then our
group—about 25 people, mostly from the U.S.—boarded an old school bus. The bus never got out of first gear as
the driver maneuvered us over rocks and ruts up the side of the mountain. Being jostled didn’t help my
nerves. Neither did getting out,
climbing up the trail to the staging area, and the guides putting our gear on
us. Neither did climbing the 20
minutes (10 minutes of “Tico time) of “stairs” built into the hillside to wait
in line at the first platform; I couldn’t figure out if my t-shirt was soaked
with sweat or rain. Someone took a picture of all of us.
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| I don't remember this photo at all |
Finally it was
my turn. I tried to just focus on my breathing. It was raining so hard I couldn’t see the other end. Fortunately, that also meant I couldn’t
see how far up we were. I clenched
my teeth and let go. And, of course,
I made it to the other end. My son
stared at me, then told me my face was covered with mud. The guide grinned at me. “Monkey poop,” he said.
Really? I mean, really?!!
I would like to say that zip-lining
was exhilarating. I would like to
say how surprised I was at how much fun I had. I would like to say how much I’m looking forward to the
opportunity to do it again. But,
alas, I would be lying. I’m not an
adrenaline junkie. I do not enjoy
whizzing through the rain at top speeds towards a platform I can’t see,
hundreds of feet above the ground.
I did not enjoy the scenery, see exotic animals, or experience the
unique sounds of the canopy. The
only sound I remember is the friction on the zip-line, and the sound of my own
whimper/moan when I realized I was only halfway through the kilometer-long line
and could look left to see the enormous waterfall. (I recognized that whimper as the main sound I had produced
while giving birth 11 years ago).
The view must have been spectacular, but I’m not sure I remember any of
it. I counted down the lines,
twelve to zero. When I got to the
last one, my legs almost gave way on the last platform, and I had to be shoved
forward out of the way of oncoming zip-liners.
When we got off, we were led
through a Maleku village, (one of the groups of indigenous peoples of Costa
Rica), given a short lecture of their history, given an opportunity to buy
their art (who carries money with them while zip-lining?!), then taken back to
the old school bus for the ride back.
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| Maleku masks and artwork |
We had been zip-lining for two hours; some of the lines gave us the
opportunity to fly at speeds of almost 60 miles per hour. I was sore, exhausted, and grateful to
have survived. My friends were
pleased with the experience, my son was thrilled, and my husband was—as
usual—unimpressed (I guess when you used to jump out of planes, zip-lining is a bit of a letdown). It all felt a
little like we were the sucker-tourists, taken in by the lure of a cheap
thrill.
Would I have missed anything by not
going? I didn’t see anything, as I
was concentrating on keeping my balance and using my core strength to brake
with a wet glove on wet zip lines.
I didn’t see wild animals in their natural habitats. I didn’t enjoy the whoosh of air past
my ears, or the rush of adrenaline as I realized I was hundreds of feet above
land. But the one thing I would have
missed was perhaps the most important of all.
Facing my fear.
Because at the moment I finished, I
knew that if I had to do something similarly scary in the future, I could face
the challenge head-on. I would not
be intimidated or, worse, paralyzed by my fear. On the other hand, I also possessed the knowledge that I
couldn’t let the schoolgirl worry of being left out direct my choices;
sometimes—most times—I should simply follow my instinct, and let it be my
guide. Finding the balance between facing down your fear and following your
instinct is one of the toughest lessons of travel. And, of course, of life in general.
This time, I’m proud of the choice I
made, and having followed through on something incredibly difficult for me.
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| Yes, that's me |
Next time, I’ll sit back in the
cabin with the Kindle.
